


Payday/Hotline Miami Oneshots

by TheBlindAngel



Series: Payday/Hotline Miami Oneshots [1]
Category: Hotline Miami (Video Games), PAYDAY (Video Games)
Genre: #denial, Also hey look, And Thick Boi Beard, Anyways, Beard's Name Is Benjamin (Coz it's weird naming him after the dude he's based on.), Blood, Broke Dick Drills, Chains Is In A Pickle, Cloakers, Coz I'm the author and I. Have. That. Power., F/F, F/M, Fluff, Girlfriend's name is Christina, Gore, I forgot how much it sucks to write in every character, I needed a way to introduce my OC into this thing, I'm bringing her in later tho, Jacket Knows Sign Language, Jacket's Name Is Richard In This, Kidnapping, Little Russian Heister Child, M/M, Multi, Murder, Nightmares, Nobody from HLM that I'm including here is dead, Not All Stories Are Connected, Other, Robbery, She's gonna be in a poly!relationship with Sokol Jacket and Beard, Shooting, Sick Memes, So does everybody else, So much violence, Some Will Be Part Of A Series, Swearing (From Hox. Of Course.), Sweet Jesus, Upset Chicken Man, Violence, Yes I named her Angel, also, especially in a fandom that doesn't get a lot of traffic, robberies, smut(?)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-30
Updated: 2018-07-05
Packaged: 2019-02-23 22:34:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 11
Words: 22,551
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13199961
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheBlindAngel/pseuds/TheBlindAngel
Summary: This is a bunch of drabbles that I made for the Payday (1&2) fanbase, as well as the Hotline Miami (1&2) fanbase. Jacket is in both, and I really don't wanna have to tag everyone all over again, so I'm mushing them together. There will be smut, death, swearing, but if you read the tags, you know that, by now.Disclaimer: I (Obviously) do not own these characters in any way, (except for OCs), and I don't condone most of this shit in this collection.AKA, crime is bad, please behave, kiddos.





	1. Nightly Cares

**Author's Note:**

> This is a little piece of a bigger picture of Sokol, Jacket, and Beard. I'll post this in a separate work, as well, and put it together at a later date.
> 
> This (shit pile) chapter is pretty much full of stuff that I wrote on three days of pure caffeine and sleep-deprivation. Forgive spelling errors, mistakes, and how shit it is. It's very OOC, (out of character) for Jacket and Sokol, but when it's in its own little story, it'll be rewritten, and then I'll transfer that version of the chapter here. I'll also edit the food stuff out, probably, because I honestly don't like it, but I wanted to get something out before the New Year.
> 
> Translations (Sokol Speaking Slovak) Please know, English is my native language, and I speak -some- Spanish, so I'm sorry if some/most of the translations aren't correct!
> 
> kretén - moron  
> necitlivý kretén - insensitive asshole  
> Áno - Yes
> 
> Mind you, I also haven't written anything for the public in over two years, so it's bound to be shit.

_"No need to thank me, kid. It's on the house. You would've done the same for me, right?"_

     Jacket woke with a start. His eyes were on fire, even though the rest of his body lay in a cold sweat.

     Looking to the dark ceiling of his room, he could only see cold beady eyes staring back at him.

     Dragging a scarred hand across his face, Jacket sat up. His slept on his couch more often, these days. After moving out of his Miami apartment into the graffitied safehouse owned by James Hoxworth, he never bothered to unpack his mattress, instead choosing to leave it jammed between his couch and the large metal fence that stood behind it.

     As he sat up, Jacket reached beneath his worn pillow, grabbing a fresh pack of bandages. He quietly wrapped his hands, deciding that sleep had yet again evaded him.

     Standing up, the man silently stepped over to his television, grabbing the t-shirt that lay haphazardly on top of it. He slipped it on to his muscular body before grabbing his cassette player and leaving his quiet room. The quiet man slinked his way up the curved staircase, dragging his bandaged hand up the rail as he went.

     Everything around him was quiet, everything but his hand, the cold metal rail, and the thoughts that pulsed through his head like a bomb.

_Bombs._

     Shaking his head, Jacket continued up the stairs until he was met with the “living room” of the safehouse. Nobody really stayed there, there weren’t that many bedrooms. Sure, there were a few that people could stay in if they’d liked, but everybody had private lives, homes, even families.

     Flicking the lights on, he noticed the goat that still lived there. Nobody knew when Vlad was planning on taking it out of there, and nobody seemed to care if he did. It ate anything, really. That part pissed off Dallas, when he returned from the heist that brought the goat to them, only to find the goat had eaten half of his share, and part of the duffel.

     Snorting, Jacket walked up the stairs to the kitchen, grabbing a banana out of the fruit bowl, and snatching the large jar of peanut butter out of the cabinet next to the fridge. There wasn’t much left, considering the fact that everyone in the gang loved peanut butter, especially a certain group of individuals.

     Sokol, the Russian pretty boy, Sydney, the Aussie Dingo, and Angel the, well, nobody really knew her that well. All anyone knew was that she was a weird mixture of Mexican and Swedish. She didn’t speak much about herself, apart from the little known fact that she was Wolf’s half-sister. Houston took a liking to her, and with a little convincing on Angel’s part, Wolf decided not to shoot the other man in the head for ‘dating’ his baby sister.

     Reaching for the bread, Jacket was annoyed to find that there wasn’t any. He looked in the bread box, finding it empty, as well. Slamming the offensive container shut, Jacket looked around the kitchen, finding not one slice of bread in his sights. He knew everyone liked sandwiches, but couldn’t they at least replace the damn bread?

     Sighing, Jacket took his plate of peanut butter and the banana and quietly walked to the couch. Sitting on the fine leather, the blonde propped his feet up on the coffee table, accidentally knocking over a small pile of magazines. Ignoring the small mess, Jacket peeled the banana, dipping it into the pile of peanut butter, before taking a bite.

     “So, the silent chicken-man does eat like normal human?”

     Jacket let his head drop back in annoyance. Bored blue eyes met mischievous grays. Returning to his food, Jacket tried to ignore the Russian Heister, deciding that he was too sleep-deprived to handle the younger man. He felt the couch bounce, as said younger man gleefully flipped his body over the nice leather. The goat let out a frightened bleat, before climbing down to the floor. Jacket looked to his right, seeing the scarred handsome face of Sokol. He sat there with a baggy t-shirt and a pair of light gray sweatpants on his built frame. He might have been a hockey player, but a few months without regular hockey and gun-handling gave way to a slight pudge in his arms and face, and the no-good grin on his lips.

     “What? Cat got your tongue, little bird? C’mon, why don’t you talk to Sokol? Us Russians have feelings too, yes?”

     Reaching for his cassette, Jacket pressed a few buttons, before a crisp “Fuck you, fzzzt, Falcon”  rang out. He brought the banana up to his lips and took another bite, before the younger man snatched the food out of his hands, leaping up from his spot on the couch.

     “You know what, my Miami Panther friend? You can’t have this food back until you talk to me.”

     Huffing in mild anger, Jacket stood up, a few inches shorter than his younger companion. Reaching for his food, the younger man stepped back, lifting the arm that held the banana above Jacket’s head.

     “Oh, little Bird, you’ve gotta be smarter than that. Put some of those killer instincts to use-”

     Leaning down, his face next to Jacket’s, Sokol smirked.

     “-and take it from me.”

     Jacket’s face was blank, his eyes showing the only emotion he held inside of himself at the moment.

     Pure.

     Fucking.

     Annoyance.

     Reaching his hand slightly above his waist, Jacket knocked his arm forward, right into Sokol’s stomach. The Russian cussed heavily, his pale hand crushing the fruit.

     Dropping it, Sokol brought his arms down to his torso, still cursing at the older man.

     “You fucking kretén!”

     Jacket looked to the younger man, who brought one arm to brace himself on the couch, and the other remained where it was. He leaned his head to the side, wondering why a hit to his stomach hurt him, yet being beaten to a pulp by cloakers and shotgunned by dozers never seemed to phase the young man.

     Returning his gaze to the younger man, he saw exactly what he was, a younger man.

     Sokol was still practically a boy.

     Growing up with constant training and hockey in his life, the younger heister never got to have a childhood. Jacket could still see the glimmer of innocence in his otherwise grownup eyes.

     The man stepped around Sokol, returning to the kitchen.

     Sokol, meanwhile, sat himself on the couch, pissed off that the quiet man had actually assaulted him. He looked to the ground, the plate of peanut butter being eaten by the goat, who soon moved over to the forgotten banana.

     Sokol watched as a pair of beaten up sneakers walked into his view, a bandaged hand swatting at the goat, shooing it off to another part of the room.

     Sokol looked up to find the now-calm eyes of the American looking at him. In his other hand, Jacket held an ice pack wrapped in a paper towel, with the paper towel roll tucked underneath his arm. Jacket handed the ice to Sokol, his free hand clicking a button on his cassette.

_“Vanilla Ice-Ice Baby. Fzzzt. A bandage for your wounds!”_

     Sokol took the pack gingerly in his pale hand, placing it over his stomach. It was still sore, but it would heal, a bruise being the worst case scenario. Sokol relaxed into the couch as Jacket scooped the banana off of the carpeted floor, using another paper towel to remove any residue. The man silently tossed the fruit away, before returning to his seat on the couch. He pulled out his cassette player, messing with the various settings he had Wolf install onto it.

     Sokol watched the man. His gray eyes twinkling with curiosity at the blonde’s anxious movements.

     “Why’re you nice to me, now?”

     Jacket stopped at that. Why had he been nice to the boy? He looked to Sokol, a questioning look on his face. Sokol gestured to the carpet.

     “I stole your food, and yes, you fucking punched me, which was not fucking cool, you necitlivý kretén. But you gave me ice pack, for stomach. You’re never nice to me. Why? Why now?”

     Jacket stared at the man, his eyes showing a speckle of hurt. Looking to his player, his mind raced for an explanation, while his hands did the same with the cassette.

_“You’re -fzzzt- still a -crzh- kid. You’ve -fzzt- done -fzzt- me no -fzzt- harm.”_

     Sokol grabbed his hand before he could play any more. Reaching to the table, the younger heister grabbed a pad of paper and colored pencils, left there by Sydney. He handed them to Jacket, who gave him a quizzical look. Sokol gestured to the paper, then to him.

     “Tell me why you hate Russians, then. You’re kind to me, but hate Russian people. You slaughter Russian Mafia in Florida, yet leave me be. Why? What happened to make war between us?”

     Jacket listened to the broken English of the Russian man, the hurt in his voice more evident. Quickly, he wrote out a response. He showed it to Sokol. _“_

_Did you ever hear of the Soviet-American war?”_

     Sokol nodded, humming in confirmation.

     “Áno, every child learns of this war. Took place in eighties, Russia wiped part of San Francisco out. The bomb wasn’t that strong, but it pissed off many Americans. Why?”

     Jacket shook his head, angry at the lack of truth in the history books. He scribbled down another answer.

_“The bombing was -after- the start of the war. That happened in ‘86. The start was earlier than that.”_

     Sokol clenched his eyebrows, confusion lining his face.

     “Okay, but that still doesn’t make any… Oh…”

     Looking up to Jacket, his face softened.

     “You fought in the war, didn’t you?”

     Jacket nodded, closing his eyes, deep in thought. His hand hesitated, but he began writing again. Sokol softly placed his chin on Jacket’s shoulder, reading over it.

_“I fought in the war. My best friends and I… it was a large group of us, at first. All Miami boys, lined up, ready to fight, not knowing the truth. We thought we’d find fame and glory, but we were stupid, just some dumb kids from the slums of the city. Eventually, it was just me and a few others, a teacher named Daniels and a bartender named Barnes. Well, our superior tossed us with this new lieutenant, who called himself Beard. I don’t know why the fuck he called himself that, but we went along with it.”_

     Jacket’s hand stopped, slightly shaking as he tried to fight the memories that plagued his mind.

_Beard was amazing. He was everything I wanted to be. Strong, outgoing, caring. He took care of us, even though Daniels was older than him. He saved my ass more times than I can-”_

     Sokol looked to Jacket, and he spoke softly.

     “He died saving you, didn’t he?”

     Jacket shook his head.

_"He died because I didn’t save him.”_

     Sokol understood, now.

     “He died in San Francisco’s bomb attack?”

     Jacket nodded, sad blue eyes staring down at the paper. Picking up his pen, he continued writing.

_“It’s why I don’t talk, anymore. The last phone call we shared, he left his convenience store to see what was going on outside that caused everyone to panic, and I failed him. He saved me so many times, and he never once asked for me to return the favor. I couldn’t save him, that day. I could’ve warned him, I could’ve told him that maybe-”_

     Sokol interrupted the man. “How could you, though? You didn’t know, Jacket. That bomb dropped on city, seconds after he left phone. You said yourself, he went outside. He wouldn’t have found shelter there. There was no time for Beard.”

     Jacket twirled the pencil in his hand. He wrote one more thing, before softly placing the pad in Sokol’s lap, and standing to leave the room.

_“But we were the only ones from the Ghost Wolves left. Barnes and Daniels died on our last mission.”_

     Sokol looked up at the back of the soldier, who paused in his steps at the top of the stairs. A rough, broken voice spoke softly, one Sokol had never heard before.

     “It was my duty to protect Beard. He was all I had left, and, and I failed him.”

     Jacket softly walked downstairs, leaving Sokol with the notepad on the couch.


	2. New Year's Eve

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dallas faces his New Year's evening alone... or does he?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is something I wrote from midnight to two in the morning, so I hope you like it. 
> 
> Dallas/Bain

     Dallas sighed as he opened the door to his apartment. It was cold, that night, and the building was quiet, save for the heating system groaning in response to the hard chill. It was New Year's Eve, and Dallas was alone.

     Walking into the dark room, the man clicked the switch to the ceiling light. It flickered slightly, before emitting a light glow. He dropped his wallet in the bowl next to the door, his keys and gun along with it. Pulling his winter coat off, hard eyes wandered over to his phone. The answering machine's light was on, and with a moment of hesitation, the man clicked the "Messages" button.

     "Hey sweetie, it's me, your mother calling. We haven't talked, these last few weeks, and I wanted to make sure you're alright. Even your brother Derek's worried. He mentioned something about your friend, Bain? I don't know, I guess it's just me being an old woman. I really do wish you'd call, honey. I miss talking to my son. Well, I hope you have a happy New Year's Day, Nathan. I'll talk to you soon, hopefully. Love you lots."

      _-Beep-_

     Dallas dropped his head to his hand, cursing at himself for not calling his mother. Making a mental note to call her in the morning, he almost missed the next message.

      _-Beep-_

     "Hey, Dallas."

     Shooting his head up to the machine, Dallas' eyes widened at the voice.

     "It's me, Bain. Listen, I didn't want you to find out about this... this 'thing' that I've been working on. Hell, I wasn't going to bring any of you into it until I thought you were ready. I guess... surprise?"

     Dallas let out a hurt laugh at that, typical of Bain leaving the crew in the dark about anything and everything.

     "Uh, anyways. I don't know if I'll make it out of here, and... don't worry about them finding out who you really are, I keep that shit in my head, and I wouldn't do something that stupid and risk getting you caught, same for the others."

     Sitting down in the chair next to the answering machine, Dallas leaned over to see when the message was left.

     12/25/2017 at 3:47 p.m.

     A whole fucking week ago. Had it really been that long since he'd been home? Dallas kept listening.

     "Listen, Dallas. I know you're probably really fucking angry at me for doing this, but I had to, you have to know that. I'm sorry I haven't been truthful, and if I do make it out of this mess, I want to make it up to you. I won't make promises, because I tend to break those in record time, so I'm making an offer-"

     Dallas shook his head, knowing Bain too well to know that he /was/ really shitty at keeping promises.

     "If you promise to unlock your door on New Year's Eve, at... let's say 11:59, just for shits and giggles, I will dedicate my entire purpose to fixing this. I... I have to go, I think they found me again, but I'll try and leave another message tomorrow."

     "Take care, kid."

      _-Beep-_

     Checking the machine for another message, Dallas cursed, seeing none left. He wiped a still-gloved hand across his mouth, which then swept his unruly hair back. Standing up, he looked at his watch.

     9:28:47

     Sighing again, the greying man walked over to the door, before remembering that he left it unlocked. Looking to the doorknob, he contemplated locking it, before deciding to give Bain a little bit of faith. He slowly walked over to the small kitchen area, grabbing a beer out of the fridge, as well as a leftover sandwich from his duffel that his brother's girlfriend had made as a 'feel-better' gift.

     He didn't want to eat, after losing Bain, but the team needed a leader, and, well, Locke wasn't nearly as good as Bain. So, Dallas had to step up, take control of things. The sleep deprivation along with the constant mixture of nicotine and coffee helped keep him focused on jobs, but the others could sense something in the older man had changed. Hoxton and Wolf had even toned it down on the pranks in the safehouse.

     Sitting down on his couch, Dallas toed off his shoes and loosened his tie, propping his feet up on the opposite couch arm. Grabbing the remote, he turned the television on, flicking through channels before deciding that watching his team on the evening news wasn't on top of his list of things he enjoyed, anymore.

     The man opened the beer, draining half the bottle before setting it down on the coffee table in front of him. Sitting in the pitch black, Dallas leaned his head to rest on the couch, his eyes staring at nothing and everything all at once. He could hear Bain yelling in his earpiece. He could see Wolf yelling for Chains as Hoxton got distracted by the urgency in Bain's voice, and was shot in the left shoulder. He could smell the smoke from his gun, as he shot at oncoming SWAT members. He could feel the static as Bain's end went silent, and he could hear the haunting last words from his closest friend.

     "Be careful."

     Closing his eyes, Dallas shivered as he slowly drifted off to sleep.

    _Knock knock-knock_  

     Dallas gasped as he heard a force hit his front door. Reaching for his gun, Dallas remembered leaving it by the entrance to his apartment.

     Slowly sitting up, Dallas thanked God that he had already taken off his shoes. Slipping his suit jacket off, the man freed his arms from any constriction, before silently stepping over to his front door.

     Grabbing the gun out of the bowl, he hid it behind his back, before turning the knob. Someone shoved through the door, a slight wheeze coming from Dallas' assailant.

     Whipping the gun out of hiding, Dallas went to point the gun at the intruder, before being knocked back into the door, slamming the mahogany shut. An arm was pinned against his throat, and his gun ripped out of his hands. Both arms freed, Dallas reached up to claw and punch at the taller figure, but those too were pinned to his stomach, as a solid chest collided with his own. He could hear the person, a man, curse, before they spoke to him.

     "Goddammit, Dallas! What the fuck are you thinking?"

     Freezing in his struggle, Dallas was confused by the voice. He struggled to breathe, but they wouldn't let him move. The figure realized what he was trying to do, and with a slight 'oh', they released his throat. Their arm joined the other in keeping Dallas' arms pinned to his stomach, but the solid and warm chest left his body.

     Fumbling to Dallas' side, the figure turned the overhead light on, and Dallas' eyes squinted at the now-harsh lighting. Soon, his eyes cleared, and he was met with an unfamiliar face, but a very familiar voice. Long black hair was wrapped back in a ponytail, a slightly bushy beard of the same color was on the man's face. It seemed like it had been trimmed and kept, and the face was slightly scarred. A bit of blood sat above the man's left eye, which was swollen purple and yellow. The man's eyes were a deep chocolate brown, and slightly annoyed, by the looks of it. The man began speaking again.

     "You never fucking listen, do you, Dallas?"

     Dallas, still puzzled, let out a slight huff of confusion. Rolling his eyes, the man continued to speak.

     "I told you to keep your door unlocked, and you did that, so good job, but I also told you to be expecting something at 11:59-ish. Didn't I?"

     Dallas began spluttering, throwing his shirtsleeve up to look at his watch.

     11:59:54

     That's when it hit him. Looking to the man, Dallas could see he was talking.

     11:59:55

     "Dallas, you seriously aren't listening, are you?"

     11:59:58

     Dallas looked to the man. He grabbed him by his bloodstained and utterly hideous jacket, pulling him down to his level.

     11:59:59

     "Shut up, Bain." 

     And at 12:00:00 am, January first, 2018, Dallas kissed Bain for the first time.


	3. New Year's Eve (Part 2)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Part two of the last chapter. I'm thinking about writing smut for these two, mostly because I'm planning on writing smut for almost every other ship in this series. It all depends on if anyone wants me to. I know there aren't that many fics about Bain and Dallas, so it'd be something fresh for this site. Anyways, leave a comment down below if you think I should. It wouldn't be the next chapter because smut is something I work on to write perfectly, but it'd be within the next few chapters or so. I plan on writing more oneshots this week, so it won't take long for the smutty shit to come in. Okay, so I'm rambling now, and I'm gonna stop.
> 
> Enjoy this chapter!

12:00:01

  
     Bain let out a muffled noise, soon silencing in favor of kissing Dallas in return. Gently, he brought rough hands to hold the younger man's face, while Dallas quickly moved his own to wrap around the bearded man's neck. They stayed like that for a few moments, just gently kissing, no words spoken between them.  
Dallas reached a hand up to move Bain's hair out of his face, when the man let out a sharp hiss of pain. Quickly retracting his hands, Dallas took a better look at Bain.  
His coat was covered in blood, more towards his chest area. Slowly moving part of his jacket out of the way, Dallas could see a bullet wound resting dangerously close to his heart.

     "Shit, Bain. You could've told me about this."

     Bain let out a wheezing laugh.

     "Yeah, well, you were kinda kissing me. I'll be fine, don't worry, Dallas."

     Dallas wasn't listening, choosing instead to grab Bain's arm, dragging the stronger man over to his small bathroom.

     "I'll find the first aid. I'm not that great at patching bullet wounds, so I'll get Chains on the phone. Fuck, when did you get shot? You feeling dizzy? You need some water-"

     Bain quickly shushed Dallas, placing a gentle hand on his shoulder.

     "I'm okay, Dallas. I'll talk you through fixing me up, it's not safe to call Chains, or anyone else, for that matter. I'm already risking a lot by being here."

     Dallas looked at Bain in confusion. Sighing, Bain pulled out a piece of paper from his coat, before sliding the garment off onto the floor. Opening the bathroom door, Bain began looking around the room, as if he were checking for traps. Looking to his hand, Dallas grabbed the paper from Bain, turning around to read it, as Bain began trying to grab it from him.

     "Dallas, you aren't meant to read that! Dammit- Dallas!"

     Dallas quickly scanned the paper with worried eyes, his interest peaked by Bain's words.

     "Bain, the objective's gone sour. I had to lie to the Payday gang, say that I was the one who wanted them kept in the dark. I don't know how long I'll be able to keep this charade up, but you better get ahold of that bloody "holy grail" before they begin catching on. Your boy, Dallas is worried sick. He clearly hasn't slept since you left, but you need to hurry back. I think he may be catching on to you.  
\- Locke"

     Crumpling the paper in his hand, Dallas quickly brought his fist up to his mouth, turning to Bain. Cold eyes stared at the secretive man, and Bain could feel the betrayal radiating from Dallas.

     "How long?"

     Bain looked down at Dallas, the younger man's eyes now looking to the bathroom tiles.

     "What?"

     Dallas looked up at him, anger seeping into his words.

     "How long, Bain? How fucking long were you gone? How... Where the fuck did you even go? Who the fuck betrayed us? Did anyone even fucking betray us?! I haven't slept in over a week, because I've been looking for you! And you haven't even been fucking missing? You left, didn't you?!"  
Before Dallas could say any more, Bain stepped in.

     "I left to protect you! Those guns in the background? They were fucking real! All of them! I had to abandon my home, my fucking city, I had to fucking abandon you, Dallas! Why can't you fucking see that I did all of that shit to protect you?!"

     Dallas stepped over to Bain, their voices growing ever-louder.

     "You couldn't even fucking tell me?! You're the closest fucking person I have in my life that isn't fucking family, Bain! I'd still be in fucking hiding, if it weren't for you. Hell, I'd be fucking dead right now! Those mob bosses would've fucking found me, and they would have fucking killed me! You made me who I am, you're the only one I can really trust in this fucking shithole of a world, yet you can't fucking trust me?"

     Dallas' voice was softer, by the end. Perhaps he was tired, perhaps he wasn't. Bain looked at the younger man's face, the crows feet by his eyes, the stress lines in his forehead, he could map every part of his face, and it read 'exhausted.' Sighing, he grabbed Dallas' hand, taking the paper out of it. Uncrumpling it, he ripped it into pieces.

     "You're right. You're right. I fucked up, kid. I shoulda told you. The shit I told you? That was all true. My location was comprimised, I was attacked. They didn't keep me long, though. You seem to forget, I was in the army. They only had me a few days, I managed to slip out two days ago, though I didn't bring my cane with me, now that I think of it."

     Letting out another pained wheeze, Dallas realized Bain was still hurt, and that he had a rather obvious limp in his left leg. Grabbing his shoulders, he helped him to sit down on the toilet lid.  
As Dallas reached under the sink for a medkit, Bain kept talking, though he couldn't tell if Dallas was even listening.

     "Listen, Dallas, if you don't trust me, that's fine, but you need to know that I-"

     "Did it for me, right?"

     Dallas turned around. His eyes were tired, glued to the bullet wound in Bain's chest. Kneeling down, Dallas rolled his sleeves up before unbuttoning the top of Bain's shirt. Bain tried helping him, pulling one of the buttons out, before Dallas slapped his hands away with a quiet "let me do it, dammit." Huffing a laugh, Bain looked down at Dallas, whose eyes met his.

     "I'm still mad at you, Bain. It was fucking stupid to keep me in the dark. I could've helped you, man. What if you couldn't get out? What if... what if you died?"  
His hands shook on the last button, eventually getting it, and he slipped Bain's shirt down his arms. He was met with several tattoos that lined Bain's arms, his chest area covered in blood, the wound horribly patched up with gauze and tape. Bain hissed as Dallas pulled the gauze off, placing his hand on the younger man's shoulder. Dallas brought up a damp washcloth, gingerly washing away the blood. He took a pair of tweezers, gingerly digging the bullet out. Pulling out antibacterial gel, he applied it to the wound, and he could feel Bain's hand squeeze him.

     "Damn, kid, that shit hurts."

     Snorting, Dallas continued cleaning the wound, grabbing out a suture kit.

     "Well, if that hurt, you're gonna fucking hate me in a few seconds."

     Bain huffed a small laugh at Dallas' sarcasm, before breathing in deeply. Dallas chose the moment he breathed out to stick the needle into his skin, beginning to sew his wound up.

     "Usually, I wouldn't suture this kinda wound, I leave that to Chains, but you don't want me calling him, so you're gonna have to suck it up, for now. I still think we should call him, at least tell him you're still alive, so he can tell the others."

     Bain shook his head, letting Dallas finish up before he spoke again.

     "No, that's actually a horrible idea. As far as our 'clients' are aware, I'm dead. We can't trust anyone, Dallas. Well, Jimmy we can trust, but that's because he's a loyal coke head. But any other clients we have, the Elephant? The Dentist? No, they can't know, not until we at least find out who screwed us over."  
Dallas looked at Bain, his eyebrow flicking up. He looked back to the wound, grabbing a bandage for it.

     "What about the Butcher? Dragan? What if she's the rat? That means the safehouse is compromised, we gotta warn Hox-"

     "It's not her, Dallas. She got fucked too, remember? Why would she compromise her own position? Besides, if we can't trust Dragan, we can't trust anyone in the safehouse. Sokol? Brought him in because of his brains and his brawn. If he wanted to betray us, we could all well be fucked. Jacket? He's a loose cannon, always looking for revenge for his war buddy. Jiro? He's looking for his son, Kento. If we can't trust one gang member, we can't trust any of them."

     Shrugging, Dallas applied the bandage with soft hands. After he was done, he gathered up the litter, disposing of it in the small garbage can next to the toilet. He stood up, reaching a hand out to Bain.

     "I guess you're right. Besides, we brought in Wolf, and he's a crazy motherfucker. I'd just recommend keeping an eye on everyone we know, from now on. Like you said, we can't trust anyone."

     Bain nodded, grabbing Dallas' hand and standing up. Limping, Bain walked out of the bathroom, Dallas slowly trailing behind him. Suddenly, the phone rang. As Dallas went to grab it, Bain slammed his hand down onto Dallas'. He lifted a finger to his mouth, telling Dallas to stay quiet. They waited as the answering machine picked up.

      _-Beep-_

     "Hello, Mr. Steele. This is Jenny from work. I know we closed at five, but there seems to be an error in one of our client's accounts, and I was wondering what to do. I'm new, as you're well aware of, since you did hire me, so I didn't want to mess anything up by trying to fix it. I realize it's after midnight, but if you could give me a call in the morning, I'd appreciate it. Happy New Year!"

     -Beep-

  
     Sighing in relief, Dallas looked to Bain, who had a brow raised in interest.

     "What? So I still work at the bank. Just because we robbed it doesn't mean I can't help people stay financially secure."

     Bain shook his head at that.

     "It's not that. But Steele? Really? That's your last name, now? Could you be any more obvious?"

     Dallas rolled his eyes.

     "No, Mr. Genius. My real name's actually Steele. I didn't fake my name, I just switched to the real one. If my mother found out I changed it, she'd be on my ass about it for weeks. That, and the bank would be more suspicious if they had a name that had a ghost for a person behind it. I thought you knew my name!"

     "Well, I thought I did! You didn't exactly give me a last name until a few years back. I'll take it your first name is actually Nathan, at least?"

     Dallas nodded, his lips in a firm line.

     "Yeah, yeah it is. You're not the only mastermind in the gang. Now, if you'll excuse me, I got a couch to go lay down on."

     Walking over to the couch, Dallas was stopped by a firm hand on his arm.

     "What the hell do you mean couch, Dallas?"

     Dallas huffed in annoyance. Turning back to Bain, he gave him a mumbled response.

     "I mean, you're taking the bed, because I'm not letting you go out again in the middle of the night and fucking leave again, that's what I mean. You're staying with me, for now."

     Bain let out a noise in protest.

     "The fuck I am! I could get your ass killed, just being here!"

     Shrugging his arm out of Bain's tight grip, he grabbed him by the collar, dragging him to the bedroom.

     "No, you're staying here, even if it means having to tie you to the bedpost. You'll just have to get the fuck over it. You're staying here, until you're safe again."

     Opening the door, Dallas shoved the taller man into his room, closing the door behind them. Bain grabbed Dallas' hand, so he could get him off of his shirt.

     "Jesus fuckin', alright, kid. I'll stay. But I'm not taking the damn bed, you need sleep. I'll be fine on the couch."

     Snorting, Dallas gave him an 'oh really, bitch?' look, before opening the door.

     "Yeah, sure you'll stay on the couch, which is right by my apartment door. Not happening, Bain. I've got the couch. You're not fucking ding dong ditching me."

     Annoyed by the idea that Dallas still didn't fully trust him, he grabbed the shorter and smaller built man, easily picking him up. Dallas let out a squawk of surprise, before hitting at his tattooed arms.

     "Bain, lemme go, you son of a bitch! You're not taking the fucking couch!"

     Bain maneuvered Dallas onto the bed, grabbing him by the neck of his collar when he tried to roll off and onto the floor.

     "Nope, you're not. Jesus, don't fucking bite me, you little shit! You're not sleeping on the fucking couch! Goddammit, Nathan!"

     They fought for the upperhand until they were out of breath. Bain had Dallas trapped between his arms, and Dallas lay beneath him. Dallas breathed in heavily, his eyes lingering on Bain's face. Bain stared at the shorter man until Dallas finally caved in.

     "Fine. But we can at least share the bed. It's big enough for the both of us."

     Bain nodded at that.

     "I can work with that. You have your gun with you?"

     Dallas shook his head, confused by the sudden change of topic. Bain sighed, climbing off of Dallas, who kind of missed the warm body up against his own. Bain slowly limped out of the bedroom, returning shortly after with Dallas' pistol and his duffel. He dug through the bag until he returned with his old shotgun. Tossing the pistol to Dallas, he leaned the shotgun up against the wall next to the bed. He pointed at the pistol in Dallas' hands.

     "Rule one of staying safe, keep your guns near you at all times. If someone broke in, and your gun was in the other room, you'd be fucked right now."

     Dallas nodded, before placing it under his pillow. Bain shook his head.

     "Rule two of staying safe, don't put guns under pillows. That shit goes off, and you guessed it, you're fucked. Put it on the bedside table."

     Dallas listened to Bain, grabbing the pistol again and putting it on the table. Turning to Bain, he tried to make a joke.

     "Any other rules, Mother?"

     Bain rolled his eyes, a soft 'smartass' leaving his lips. Quietly, Bain sat down on the bed, unlacing his boots and taking them off. Dallas watched as the older man took off his shirt, more tattoos lining his back, each one telling a different story. Dallas decided to change into his sleeping attire, standing up from the bed. Going over to his dresser, the younger man grabbed a clean pair of sweatpants, quickly shouldering off his dress shirt, before placing it in his closet to be washed in the morning. He took off his pants, revealing plain gray boxers.  
Nathan pulled the sweats on, tightening them so they didn't fall off of his thin hips, they were a size too large. Still, a bit of sharp hipbone snuck out, and Dallas left it at that. He returned to his bed, where Bain still sat. He was wearing a pair of black boxers and socks, nothing else. Nathan quickly averted his eyes, so Bain wouldn't see, but he always saw through Dallas.

     "You do realize we kissed not even an hour ago, right Dallas? You can look, it's fine. If it makes you feel any better, I was staring at your ass, when you were changing."

     "Nathan."

     Bain looked at the skinnier man.  
     

     "What?"

     "Call me Nathan. While you're here, obviously, not, not in front of the others. Well, Derek, maybe."

     Bain cut him off.

     "Who the hell is Derek? He your boyfriend? God, I hope not, that'd be fucking weird."

     Dallas tossed his pillow at Bain.

     "No, you fucking dumbass, it's Houston, my brother? Why the fuck would I kiss you if I had a boyfriend? What makes you even think I'm gay?"

     "Well, I don't know, maybe it's because I know for a fact you don't have a girlfriend. Oh yeah, and you kissed me? That seems a little too gay for a straight and single middle-aged man."

     "Well, you kissed back, asshole."

     "You used tongue, Nathan. I think I win this argument."

     Nathan glared at the smug older man, who quickly pulled him into his arms, Nathan's back to his chest. Staring back at Bain, he could feel the heat emitting off of the older man tenfold, and the rough fabric of the bandage against his skin.

     "Besides, I think you were using some pent up sexual frustration on me. My voice get you hot and bothered that much, kid?"

     Before Nathan could argue back, Bain quickly shut the younger man up with a strong kiss. Now that he wasn't overcome with confusion and joy at the man being alive, Nathan could taste hints of coffee and he could smell the cologne on his neck. It was an unfamiliar brand, but one Nathan could learn to enjoy immensely. He closed his eyes, letting Bain deepen the kiss. Bain, still attached to the smaller man, reached over and turned off his light, bringing the blanket up to cover the both of them. He soon released Nathan from the kiss, who sucked in a lungful of air.

     "Happy New Year, Nathan."

     Nathan remained still as possible, his face mere centimeters away from the older man's. He quietly whispered back.

     "Happy New Year, Bain."


	4. Wolf Loves Hoxton (Very Much) (Part 1)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I swear this isn't the only part, there is more to it, I just didn't realize how much I would be writing for this ship's first oneshot/series of shots.
> 
> Also, thanks to Monster for asking for a Hoxton/Wolf, because I love these two idiots very much.

     Wolf ran through the safehouse, his tie flipping behind his shoulder, a panicked look on his face. His feet carried him to the security room, where Clover was stationed, fiddling with one of the cameras. 

     Turning to Wolf, Clover had her hair back in a bun, small streaks of pink highlight sticking out, and she had her glasses on.

     "Hey, Wolf. I saw you running through the house. Anything the matter?"

     Short of breath, Wolf simply nodded, running a hand over the bald skin on his head.

     "It's Hox and I's anniversary in three days and the gifts I bought him aren't coming in 'til next week. I can't find them anywhere in America, and I didn't think about a backup plan. I need help."

     Clover hummed, nodding. Taking her hands off of the camera controls, she looked outside of her space, making sure Hoxton wasn't right outside. Seeing that they were in the clear, she motioned Wolf to sit down in the chair next to hers.

     "Okay, Wolf. I can help, but I need you to be a good boyfriend and tell me you at least know what he likes. Food, homemade gifts, and jewelry he's been lookin' at?"  
Wolf nodded.

     "Uh, he likes nice suits, but he only gets them from a specific shop, and I don't know the name off the top of my head. Um, he loves filet mignon, but he also likes roasted chicken with lemon and herbs. He likes cats, I think, and he likes getting his head rubbed, especially his scalp. He drinks this godawful wine and I don't know how he can enjoy that shit, but he loves it."

     Clover shook her head, chuckling.

     "Damn, Wolf, you've got'it bad. Hmm, I'll tell you what, Wolf. I know someone who can help you with the dinner part. Um, another buddy of mine is good with getting 'specific' things, so a suit shouldn't be much of an issue. Oh! Also, I have this guy who's really good with finding wines, so you get me the name, I'll have him find the wine. Or, you know what? I'll give him the name. Hox sees you near his wine, he'll get suspicious, that English fucker."

     Smiling, Wolf hugged Clover, patting her back. 

     "Thanks, Clove. 

     "Course, man. Hox's me best friend. Now, get the fuck outta here, I gotta make a few calls."

     Nodding, Wolf jogged out of the security room, heading downstairs to his work space. There, he saw John Wick by the killhouse, reloading a pistol, his phone to his ear.

     "Yeah, I gotcha. Okay, I'll call you when it's done. Yeah, talk to you later."

     Hanging up the phone, John gave a short nod to Wolf, before walking into the killhouse, no doubt going in to train and polish off his already impeccable shooting skill. Wolf sighed, having the entire room to himself. Sitting down in his chair, he began working on the designs for a new drill, since the ones they used always fucking broke on them. He had just begun the drawing for the auto-restarter when he got a tap on the shoulder.

     Looking up, Wolf was met with the sight of Jacket and Sokol standing next to him. Sokol wore a baggy grey t-shirt with black jeans and a blue apron, while Jacket wore his usual outfit minus the jacket and a bright pink apron that said 'Kill the chef.'

     Snorting, Wolf put two and two together.

     "So, uh, I guess your the 'someones' that Clover sent to help?"

     Sokol nodded happily, Jacket simply stood there, staring at Wolf. Standing up, Wolf put down his pencil, cracking his spine, before standing up.

     "Okay, well, you do realize that our anniversary is in three days, right?"

     Sokol's smile dropped.

     "What the fuck? Clover said to help with dinner! She sounded like she meant dinner tonight! For fuck's sake."

     Jacket blinked, looking at the young Russian. Shaking his head, Jacket pulled out his tape recorder.

     "The chicken goes - ba-CAWK. -"

     Wolf chuckled, beard revealing a warm smile.

     "Yeah, the chicken does make that noise, Jacket. Well, I'm sorry Clove didn't tell you the dinner was in three days. If you want, I'll make the call when it's time?"

     Sokol and Jacket nodded.

     "Yes, that would be fucking lovely. Until then, I go and practice hockey. Come get me when job is available or dinner needs to be cooked."

     With that, Sokol grabbed Jacket's arm, pulling the older man out of the room. Wolf watched the two leave.

     "And here I thought the two couldn't stand to be near each other, huh."

     Checking his watch, Wolf saw that it was nearing five-thirty, the time that Hoxton would be home from the job. It was a simple smash and grab, something everyone in the gang had done a hundred times before. Yet, no matter how many times a store was robbed, they would never think to change their security from Gensec.  
Wolf walked up the stairs, just as the heist van pulled into the garage. Dallas and Houston hopped out, Chains not far behind them. Wolf said a quick hello to them, before spotting his English boyfriend. Smiling, he jogged over, pulling the shorter man into a strong hug.

     "Hoxatron, you're home."

     Laughing, Hoxton hugged the Swede back, breathing in the faint smell of the cologne he wore. 

     "Of fuckin' course I'm back, Wolfie. I'd never leave your ass alone, here. You'd die without me."

     Wolf thought about how true that statement was. Sure, he was a grown ass man who had lived most of his life without James, but after meeting him, he couldn't think of anyone else he'd rather spend his life with. Holding the other man closer, he whispered in his ear.

     "Yeah, but it never gets old seeing you come back home to me, James."

     Hoxton pulled back, a warm smile lying on scarred skin. Grabbing Wolf's hand, he pulled him towards the back of the van.

     "Well, you big sap, come help me grab these bags. Those fuckin' twats we call teammates left me to carry all this shit, and I'm sure as fuck not doing it by myself. Besides, I've missed you too, Wolf."

     Wolf's smile grew, the bald man happily grabbing three or four bags of jewelry and cash, while Hoxton only grabbed two. The couple walked over to the living area, dropping the bags on Houston's feet, which were on top of the coffee table.

     "Oi, you fuckin' twat. Feet off m'table. That shit cost more than your dick enlargement surgery."

     Houston, who cursed after the bags were dropped, pulled up his arm, flipping Hoxton off.

     "Fuck you, /James/. At least I don't receive."

     "Well, that's fuckin' clever of you, innit? Gotta go ahead and make the gay jokes, don't we? Just admit it, Houston, you'd fuck me."

     Walking away, Hoxton and Wolf could hear Houston say 'in your dreams, asshole.' The scarred man let out a large laugh, his eyes crinkling in the corners.

     "Ah, he'd so fuck me, sad that I've already got a lover boy, and I don't think Angel would want to share with us. His loss, he's missing out on some good shit."

     Wolf rolled his eyes, laughing along with Hoxton, even though the arm he had around his waist grew just a bit tighter. Sure, he knew Hoxton didn't mean it, but he didn't want to share his boyfriend, it may seem a bit clingy to some, but Wolf was just being Wolf.

     The two walked over to the kitchen, where Jacket and Sokol were sitting across each other at the large table. Sokol was speaking in his native tongue, Jacket occasionally nodding and humming. The two were picking at takeout containers of Chinese food. Jacket silently slid two boxes over to Hoxton and Wolf, who thankfully accepted the food. Hoxton reached for a fork, deciding not to try and work with a pair of chopsticks. Wolf grabbed one as well and sat next to his boyfriend, their legs crossing each other. 

     "So, Jacket, any plans for tomorrow? We don't have a job, right?"

     Jacket shook his head at Wolf, some of his hair falling forward. Sokol, shaking his head, reached over the table and ran his hand through the older man's hair, messing it up even more. The ex-soldier glared at Sokol, who simply shrugged.

     "Looks better that way. Stop putting gel in it, gets sticky and must shower more often."

     Fiddling with a few buttons on his cassette, Jacket pressed 'Play.'

     "I shower every day as needed - fzzzt - due to our jobs, one must shower daily to stay clean."

     Hoxton stabbed his fork into his rice, raising an eyebrow at the mute.

     "Okay, I know it's gonna make me sound like a massive fucking arsehole, but tell me, why the hell do you even use a bloody tape player to speak? You can speak, can't ya?"

     Jacket nodded, looking over at Sokol, who spoke for him.

     "He can speak, yes, but he doesn't want to. His choice. Besides, the tapes seem to intimidate people more."

     Satisfied with the answer, Hoxton looked back to his food, before grabbing his fork and stabbing it into Wolf's container. With an angry 'hey!', James stole a piece of chicken out of his boyfriend's box, smirking as he popped it into his own mouth.

     "Shoulda been quicker than that, Wolfie."

     Wolf huffed, staring at the younger man as he chewed the food. He let it go, knowing that Hoxton was only playing with him.

     "Ya know, Wolfie? This food is pretty shit if I'm being honest. Like, we've visited China before, that lovely little village, remember that? Compared to the food here, it's like we're mocking the poor bastards. They've got this entire style of cooking food, and we just focus on small parts of it. It's a shame, really."

     The group finished their food quickly, the pairs quickly cleaning up their garbage and heading to their respective rooms. As Wolf and Hoxton headed down to Wolf's room, they could spot Sokol looking to his left and his right, before following Jacket into his corner room. Wolf could hear a quiet 'I fucking knew it' come from his side, as Hoxton had a small smile on his face. The younger man looked up at Wolf, his smile fading.

     "What? I can't be happy for the fuckers? They used to be at each other's throats. At least now we won't have to worry about them killing each other."

     The two walked quietly the rest of the way to their room, Wolf holding the door for his boyfriend, who simply rolled his eyes, a small smile on his face. 

     "Fuckin' sap."

     Wolf silently shut the door behind them.


	5. Road Trips And Reconnecting. (Part 1/3?)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So, get this. Jacket? He's canon in this. I refuse to believe that someone who looked like him/his age wasn't the real deal. He survived Miami, and I'm bringing back others from the grave. Sokol goes along, there's a big polygamous relationship brewing, and nobody can stop me.

     The ceiling was a dark rustic brown, the wood panels shielded by a thin layer of smoke residue. Walls which were originally a burgundy wine now resembling bloodstains, splotches of the color draining from the wear of the weather. The floorboards were scuffed, scratches cut deep into the wood like a knife into the skin.

  
     Sokol lay in bed, his legs dangling off of the side as he held a cigarette in his mouth. He could see the thick smoke curl up in the air, scattering throughout his dark room. He didn't bother checking his clock, knowing that it was well before anyone else would be awake.

  
     Besides one other heister, maybe.

  
     Sitting up, Sokol placed his still-burning cigarette in the ashtray next to his bed, before pulling on his sweatpants. He usually slept with them on, but Washington D.C. had been going through a rather warm spring, reminding Sokol how far he truly was from home.

  
     As he stood, Sokol stretched his arms, bringing the left behind his back as he reached for his cigarette. Placing it back between pink lips, he slowly walked to his bedroom door, nearly tripping on a pair of ice skates.

  
     Opening the door, the young blonde checked the hallway before walking out. He could see a small amount of light coming from upstairs, so he decided to check it out.  
     When Sokol reached the top of the stairs, he could make out the silhouette of his friend(?) Jacket. He slowly walked over to the quiet man, making his presence known as he sat on the couch.

  
     "Hello, Jacket."

  
     The older man looked at the young Russian, nodding to him before looking back to the large television screen. Sokol's eyes met the screen and he could see that he was watching a war documentary.

     Soft grey eyes wandered to Jacket, whose face he couldn't decipher.

     "Is this about _that_ war?"

  
     Nodding again, Jacket reached over for the television remote, pausing it on a middle-aged man who had been interviewing a veteran. Jacket tossed the remote next to him, before clearing his throat.

     (Note: I'm making Jacket talk in this coz he had to talk in Hotline Miami 1&2, since he was in a call with Beard, but he also doesn't like talking, so when he does speak, it's to Sokol and not for very long. Carry on, kiddos.)

     "They got it wrong."

  
     Sokol squinted, confused at what the man said. Jacket kept speaking.

  
     "The war. The interviews. They got it all wrong. Most of the guys you see in this, they didn't even get a chance to see the effects of war. They didn't live through it."

  
     Sokol looked at the screen, the usually mute war veteran now speaking, his voice rough with lack of use.

  
     "When you go through hell and back, you don't come back. Not, not fully, at least."

  
     Jacket stopped talking, his eyes flickering over to Sokol, who put a hand on Jacket's shoulder, rubbing small circles into it. Slowly, Sokol grabbed the remote, turning the television off, before placing it back onto the table. He brought his legs up, pulling the older man over to him. He motioned for Jacket to lay his head on his lap. Hesitating at first, Jacket did so. Neither spoke as Sokol ran his hand through Jacket's hair, the usually brutal Russian now softly combing his head.

  
     After a while, Sokol finally spoke, although gently.

  
     "What brought it on, Jacket?"

  
     The older man shrugged, a bandaged hand resting on Sokol's knee. Sokol pursed his lips, now knowing when the other man was hiding something from him, and he knew how to get the man to speak to him.

  
     "C'mon. You can tell me. If you tell me, I'll take you to get some pizza, later."

  
     Jacket turned his head slightly, causing his hair to become more ruffled. His eyes met Sokol's as he sighed, looking back down.

  
     "It's the anniversary."

  
     Sokol's hand stopped moving, the young man knowing exactly what Jacket meant. Looking at the wall, he could barely see the calendar as his eyes scanned for the date.

  
     April 3, 2018

  
     Looking down at Jacket, his hand shakily continued rubbing his head. It had been thirty-two years since Jacket's friend had been killed in a nuclear blast that devastated part of San Francisco. It had confused Sokol, at first, Jacket's age. But after doing some mental math, and thinking about how old most veterans were at the start of the war, he figured Jacket to be around eighteen, then.

  
     "How old were you? When you joined, I mean."

  
     Jacket let out a shakey cough, bringing his other hand up to cover his mouth.

  
     "I was too young, if I'm being honest. Most guys were at least eighteen, but not me. Nobody really knew it, at first, that they had just let a seventeen-year-old punk from Miami join the war. Maybe they did, but they didn't care. They just shoved a gun in my hand and told me to shoot."

  
     "So you're what, fifty?"

     Jacket nodded.

     "Don't look it, do I?"

     The Russian shook his head. Jacket snorted.

     "Yep. I was seventeen years old, not even a senior in high school, and I snuck off to join the army. Beard saw right through my bullshit when he saw me. Didn't say anything, knew that I'd get into massive heat if he told. He was around twenty when he joined. I spent my eighteenth birthday huddled with him in a tent, not once did he rat me out."  
Sokol smiled, knowing that Jacket probably thought the world of Beard. He remembered what he had promised Jacket, and quickly made the man sit up, wanting to clear his mind of things. He stood up, grabbing Jacket's bandaged hands, before dragging him to the stairs.

 

     "C'mon, Jacket. We go out to grab American pizza, now."

  
     Jacket looked at his watch, seeing that it was barely six in the morning.

     "It's early, nothing's open."

     Sokol looked back at the older man, a knowing smirk on his face.

     "Ah, that's what you think. I'll have you know that I know a bunch of restaurants open early for night-birds."

     "You mean night-owls."

     "Shush and get some human clothes on."

     The two walked to their rooms, quickly changing into casual attire before meeting back upstairs. Sokol was pulling on a sneaker as he watched Jacket pick up the Russian's cigarette that he had forgotten on the table. Tying his shoe, Sokol didn't see the older man smile softly, before placing the now-dead cigarette between his lips. He pulled out a beat-up lighter and lit it, the flame lighting up his eyes.

     Finally ready, Sokol grabbed what he believed to be his hoodie, pulling it on, before the two left the safehouse. They climbed into the DeLorean, Jacket hesitantly handing the keys to his beloved car, before sitting in the passenger seat. Jacket buckled himself in as Sokol started the car.

     "So...where are we going?"

     Sokol peered behind him, checking for obstacles as he pulled out. He spoke in slurred English.

     "We're going to this small place Angel introduced me to. Took me there with Jiro and Sydney, a while back. Nice place, okay food, right up your alley. They even have garlic knots and cola."  
Jacket perked up at that. The Russian peeked over at his friend, chuckling.

     "Yes, I thought you'd like that. Fair warning, guy who makes pizza thinks it's okay for pineapple to go on it. He's wrong, obviously, but eh, he's nice."

     "Pineapple's okay on it."

     It was spoken so softly that Sokol almost missed it. His eyes whipped to Jacket, who stared out the car window.

     "What the fuck, Jacket? I thought we were getting somewhere. Pineapple is fine, by all means, eat the fuck out of it. But it does not belong on pizza!"

     Sokol didn't mean it, really. The young man was smirking, the scar on his nose scrunching a bit on the sides. He could make out a soft smile on the older blonde's face, the street lamps giving a warm glow to the Miami boy.

     Sokol drove the rest of the way, the two sitting in a comfortable silence. D.C. was busy, even in the early moments of the morning. Sokol watched as the sun peeked out from behind abandoned warehouses and small businesses. Eventually, they pulled up to the pizza parlor, the twenty-five year old slowly driving into a parking spot. Turning off the engine, he handed the keys to Jacket, letting the older man pocket them before they left the car.

     Walking to the door, Sokol heard the bell of the door jingle as the car horn beeped, signaling that it was locked. He held the door open for the other man, who simply nodded before walking inside.  
The restaurant was small but cozy. Several booths were lined up against the retro walls, small potted plants placed between the brown leather seats. Sokol knew that Jacket would enjoy it here. The place practically screamed 'Eighties Coast.' A small radio was playing soothing music, a fan blowing on the counter towards the hot kitchen. The two walked up to the counter.

     Sokol ringed the bell that sat on top, while Jacket looked around. His eyes carefully analyzed the establishment, widening when he came across something. Something he hadn't seen in decades.  
A muffled 'coming' sounded from the back, as Sokol looked to see Jacket in complete shock. Before he could ask what was wrong, however, the store owner came to the front.

     "Sorry about that, I don't get that many customers, these days, what can I get-"

     Jacket's eyes flew to the owner, someone he thought was dead. Their eyes met, emerald green clashing with ocean blues.

     "Richard?"

     Jacket, no, Richard nodded, shaky breaths leaving the blonde. He took a step back, looking as if he were being pulled towards the door. The other man, who Sokol had met only a few times, took a step towards Richard.

     "It's me. You remember me, right buddy?"

     A choked sob left Richard, whose hands shook at his sides, clenching and unclenching in rapid movements. Sokol grabbed his arm, tugging him over to a booth and sitting him down. He started speaking softly to the older man.

     "It's okay, friend. You're okay, you're safe. I'm not gonna let anyone hurt you. You're here, you're safe. You're safe here, Jacket."

     "Jacket?"

     Sokol looked to the green-eyed man, who seemed confused. He had bright red hair, pulled back into a ponytail. A strong jaw was covered in a beard that matched his hair color. Sokol tried to think of who he might be, but couldn't think of anyone. He looked back to Jacket, before glaring at the other man.

     "Who the fuck are you, anyways?"

     It may have been rude to curse at someone he barely knew, but if they were causing a stone wall of a person to crumble and break down, he wanted to know who they were. The store owner raised his hands up in defense.

     "I'm an old war buddy of his. I thought he remembered me, I, I guess he does."

     Sokol glared at the man again.

     "Bullshit. The only person you could be is his Colonel. Everyone he knew in the war is dead. Last I heard, the Colonel looked nothing like you."

     The ginger shook his head, taking his glasses off to rub the bridge of his nose.

     "No, Jesus. He thought I was dead? It was San Fran, wasn't it? That's why he thought I was dead, right?"

     Sokol's mouth dropped open, his mind filled with realization.

     "You're Beard, his lieutenant?!"

     The man nodded, starting to walk towards Jacket, who brought his legs up to his chest, wrapping long arms around them. The ginger, who Sokol could see was named 'Ben' on his nametag, crouched down, a careful hand coming to rest on Jacket's knee. Jacket's eyes turned to Ben, bloodshot and filled with tears.

     "It's me, Richard. I'm really here."

     Richard shook his head furiously.

     "No, no it isn't. You're not real. You-you died in the bombing. You died, you're not real."

     The lieutenant denied it.

     "No, I'm not dead, I'm alive, I'm breathing, kid. I made it through the blast. I got pulled into a bomb shelter. I made it, and I'm right here."

     Another sob left the blonde, who threw his arms around his lost friend. The two held each other, Sokol left to the side. Standing up, he walked over to the front door, flipping the 'Open' sign to say 'Closed'. When he turned back around, the other men were sitting across from each other in the booth. Ben handed Jacket a few paper napkins, which he thankfully took.

     "Thanks."

     "No problem, kid. It's on the house."

     Sokol smiled, seeing how the redhead made the younger man come out of his shell, even if just a little bit. Looking behind him, Jacket signaled Sokol over, patting the seat next to him. The Russian cautiously took the spot, Ben being across from the both of them. The oldest man spoke quietly.

     "So, uh, it's been a long time, Richard."

     Jacket nodded, scratching at a pizza sauce stain on the table.

     "Thirty-two years. Today, actually."

     Ben stared apologetically at the younger man, placing a strong hand over Richard's bandaged one. He rubbed it, and Sokol could tell he wanted to ask him about it. He hesitated, then looked at Sokol.

     "So, what's your story? How'd you two meet?"

     Sokol shrugged.

     "Ah, we met at work. I've known him for about two years, now."

     Ben nodded, looking to Jacket.

     "I'm glad you found a job, Richard. I remember you used to tell me about how you were done working for the man, the last time we..."

     Jacket looked to Sokol, his eyes worried and stressed.

     "I gotta tell him, Sokol."

     Sokol's eyes widened. He was about to tell him no when Jacket spoke again, his eyes looking down at the table while he spoke to Ben.

     "I don't work for the 'man' anymore, Beard. I haven't worked for them since '86. This...this group, fifty blessings. They recruited soldiers, people like me, people who lost loved ones in San Fran. They had us go after the Russian mafia. I practically wiped them out, in Miami. I was so, so fucking angry. I hurt people, Beard. I hurt people, some who didn't deserve it. I got an innocent woman killed. You would've loved her. I stopped working when the FBI caught me. When half of Miami got bombed, I nearly died, but I got out."

     Ben stopped rubbing Jacket's hand, processing the information he had thrown at him. He forced Richard to meet his eyes.

     "The woman... was her name Christina? Christina Parker?"

     Richard nodded. Beard hummed, rubbing his hand again.

     "Well, I don't know how to tell you this, kid. She... she ain't dead. I remember reading about her attack in the paper. I remember reading about this guy, this kid, getting locked up for slaughtering a group of Russians down in Florida. I thought maybe, just maybe it was you, but I wasn't sure. Not until they caught you, but by then, it was too late. I thought you died when the bomb dropped. Shit, I tried driving down to see if I could find you, but Miami was devastated. I couldn't get through the barriers, but people survived it, Richard. Christina made it. Last I heard, she was badly injured, but she recovered. She flew back to Virginia with her folks. God only knows what she's doing, now. I tried contacting her, but she must'a thought I was just a reporter trying to harass her for info on you."

     Richard was shocked at what he heard. She was alive? Beard wasn't mad at him?

     "You're... you're not mad at me?"

     Ben shook his head.

     "I was mad, for a long time, really, but after a while, I was just sad. I went this entire time thinking you had died. I'm still not happy with what you did, but those guys were bad news, anyway. Selling drugs behind closed doors. A lot of that shit was bought by kids. Good riddance, in my opinion."

     Sokol looked to Ben, then to Richard.

     "So... we're not gonna try and find this girl?"

     Jacket looked at Sokol, shaking his head.

     "She wouldn't wanna see me. I probably ruined her life. Even if I didn't, why would she want to see me after all this time?"

     Sokol shrugged.

     "When was the last time you saw her?"

     "June 8th, 1989. It's been almost thirty years. She won't wanna see me."

     Looking to Sokol, Richard could see him dialing a number. Putting the phone up to his ear, Sokol began speaking.

     "Hiya, Angel. Listen, I know it's early, but I need favor. Bain is M.I.A, so I need you to find someone, for me. Yeah...no...I understand you enjoy sleep, but it's urgent. I need you to find a Christina Parker. Yes. Yes. Last seen in Virginia. Mhm."

     Holding one hand to the phone, he looked to the older men.

     "What color hair did she have?"

     Richard shrugged.

     "She was blonde, blue eyes."

     Sokol nodded, speaking into his phone.

     "Blonde hair, blue eyes. Think you can find- oh. You found her? Oh. Thanks, friend. Okay. Send address, please. Jacket and I are going on road trip to visit a friend. We'll drop by to grab some things and head out. We'll be back in a few days, or so. Yes, thank you. You too. Bye-bye."

     Ending the call, Richard and Ben stared at Sokol, who had a mischevious grin on his face. The youngest looked to Ben.

     "So, you think you can take a few days off? We need to go reconnect our boy with special lady friend."

     Ben slowly nodded.

     "Uh, ah yeah. I can work with a small break. How'd you find her that quickly?"

     Sokol shrugged, his lips pursing a bit.

     "I have connections. Turns out Jacket's and my mutual friend was born in Virginia and knows the area. Gave me address."

     Richard dropped his head on the table, huffing out an annoyed sigh.

     "She won't wanna see me, Sergei."

     Sokol glared at the older man.

     "Yes she will, you American baby. She never married. I'm wondering if she didn't because she still cared about someone from her past."

     Ben stood up, heading to the back.

     "Gimme a minute, guys. I gotta lock up, really fast. Want me to follow you back to your place, then we can drive by mine to get some things?"

     Sokol nodded, a wide grin plastered on a scarred canvas.

     "Yes, good idea. 'Richard' and I will wait for you by his car."

     The oldest man agreed, turning to go to the back of the pizzeria. Sokol quickly looked to Jacket, who was glaring up at him through messy hair and hooded eyelids.

     "Jacket, I see why you like him. He's very handsome."

     The older man smacked Sokol on the arm, who simply laughed.

     "Ah yes, I see why you look up to him. You like taller men, don't you? And I'm guessing blondes?"

     Sokol waggled his eyebrows at Jacket, whose face was starting to redden like a tomato.

     "Shut up, 'Sergei.' At least I don't like men twice my age."

     Sergei stopped laughing, knowing that Richard knew about his crush. He thought for a moment, before speaking again.

     "Ya know, that may be true, but at least I don't like someone half my age."

     The two had their faces very close together, the both of them silently daring the other to move. Sokol stared at Richard's chapped lips, thinking about how they would feel on his own. He was about to move when Beard returned.

     "Okay, so I got some snacks for us- hey!"

     Richard and Sergei quickly sat up straight, nervously looking away from Beard.

     "I'm gone not even a minute and you guys are already trying to get some without me."

     Jacket's eyes widened as Sokol snorted, a sharp laugh leaving the youngest man.

     (PSA: This is so outta character and I'm sorry, but at the same time, I have no idea how to get this relationship going, yet. I'm probably gonna come back and rewrite this part, or just rewrite this entirely. Carry on.)

 

     "Well, Ben. You shoulda been quicker."

     Shaking his head, Ben shouldered a duffel filled with snacks. Grabbing some of his things from behind the counter, he turned off the fan, grabbing Sergei's hand, then Richard's. He pulled the two younger men up, walking them to the door.

     "Okay, so who's driving?"

     Richard pulled his keys out of his pocket, waving them in Ben's face before opening up the door. Ben let go of the younger mens' hands before turning to the door, shutting off the lights and locking the pizzeria door. Turning to the parking lot, Ben followed the shorter men over to the DeLorean, letting Sokol open the trunk before tossing the duffel inside. Jacket froze as he opened the car door.

     "Um, slight problem."

     Ben looked over the hood to Richard.

     "What is it?"

     The younger man pointed to the car.

     "It's only got two seats."

     Beard shrugged. Looking down at Sokol, he gestured to the seat.

     "You wanna sit on my lap?"

     The younger man blushed, but nodded, not making eye contact.

     "I don't see why not. You get handsy and I cut hands off."

     Beard laughed, deep voice music to Richard's ears. He got into the passenger seat, patting his leg.

     "Nah, I won't get too handsy. I gotta warn you, though. I'm a big cuddler. Richard can tell you that."

     Looking to Richard, who simply shrugged, Sergei rolled his eyes, climbing into the seat with Beard. He was half on his lap, his left leg between the console and the burning heat of Beard's own leg. Jacket was quick to the safehouse, allowing the other men to enter before himself. It was still quiet inside, the only sound coming from the kitchen, where Angel was more than likely cooking for the gang. Walking to the stairs, Jacket could see that Angel was indeed cooking, a too-large dress shirt hanging off of her frame. She looked down, smiling softly and waving to the three men.

     "Hey, guys! Want some food, before you leave?"

     All three nodded enthusiastically, Beard hanging back next to Sokol. Angel noticed him, giving him a small nod.

     "I see you've met Ben. I'm just gonna guess you knew each other before today, though. No need to explain it, I'll just find it out, either way. Houston's in the bathroom, so you'll have to wait to grab your stuff, boys."

     Sokol thanked Angel for the information, dragging Jacket and Beard downstairs to collect some things. While they were gone, Angel flipped pieces of bacon and sausage patties. She could hear the bathroom door open, then quiet footsteps, before strong arms wrapped around her waist. She knew immediately who it was and smiled, leaning back into the chest of her boyfriend. She looked up and into the eyes of Houston, who smiled down at her, his hair disheveled on his head.

     "Hey."

     He kissed her forehead, leaning his own down to meet hers.

     "Hey. What's cookin'?"

     Shrugging, she gestured to the pans and plates, watching as Houston tried to steal a piece of bacon. She slapped his hand.

     "Not until I'm done cooking, fucker. I'm not having a repeat of last time."

     Houston stood there in mock insult.

     "Well sor-ry. I'm not the one who let Wolf get ahold of the pancakes, now am I?"

     As he talked to her, Houston brought his arm around her waist, fake pulling her in for a hug, before reaching behind her and successfully snagging a slice of bacon.

     "Besides, you make it so easy to get food."

     She shook her head as he walked over to the kitchen table, sitting down as he began buttoning up a fresh dress shirt. He pulled his phone out of his pocket, messing around on the internet as the three men from earlier walked upstairs. Jacket and Sokol had duffels over their backs, Beard coming up behind them with an empty one. Placing the bags on the table, Sokol walked into the bathroom for the toiletries, taking the bag from the ginger.

     Once he returned, he checked the time.

     7:49 a.m.

     Looking to Beard and Jacket, he spoke to the only woman in the room.

     "Angel?"

     The brunette looked to Sokol, her hair falling over her face.

     "Yeah, Sergei?"

     "What time would we get to the girl's house if we left at eight?"

     She thought for a moment, the bacon she was flipping resting in the pan. She hummed, squinting her eyes before speaking again.

     "If you leave at eight... you should get there around eleven? Eleven thirty, if there's more traffic than usual. Shouldn't be, though."

     Sokol nodded, smiling at the younger woman. Sitting down at the table, he watched as Houston stood up, grabbing plates out of the cabinet. It was strange, seeing Houston in a domestic setting. He was used to the older man complaining and trading insults with Hoxton, but when Angel was in the room, both men behaved, not wanting to face the wrath she could bring into a room.

     The older man brought down the plates, beginning to set them on the table. He pointed at the rest of the men.

     "You guys eatin' here or on the road?"

     Jacket shrugged, Sokol grabbing tupperware from a lower cabinet.

     "We should head out soon, so we can make good time. Besides, I don't wanna deal with Hoxton finding a new face in the safehouse that he doesn't know. It'll take hours to get through to him."

     Houston nodded, knowing firsthand how dramatic Hoxton could be when he wanted. Turning to the stove, Houston picked off some bacon and eggs, Angel finally having gotten around to scrambling them. He placed them in the containers, handing them to Sokol with plastic forks.

     "Understandable. So when do you guys think you'll be back?"

     "Eh, it's Tuesday, so...Friday, maybe? All depends on situation. We may be few days longer or shorter. I'll call if things change."

     Nodding again, Houston wished them good luck, patting Jacket on the back as they walked downstairs to the car. Opening the door to the DeLorean, Sokol again climbed into Beard's lap, prepared to give Jacket directions to Portsmouth, Virginia.

     And they began driving.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ayyy, didn't think I'd bring back Beard -and- Girlfriend, did ya?  
> (People who play Hotline Miami probably saw this coming from a mile away, but the Hotline Miami mission (Day 2, with the Russian Commissar) made it impossible (to me) for Beard to be dead, and in my denial-filled mind, the same goes for Girlfriend. 
> 
> Aka they live in this, and the next chapter in this relationship is gonna be filled with tears (from me and the characters) and my denial will be sky-rocketing but I won't care. 
> 
> I plan on updating the Hoxton/Wolf thingy first, but I'll be working on this while I work on that, as well as a new fic. I may also make this into a three-part story, so I don't do what I just did and try to fit everything into one chapter, coz that usually means me writing for twelve hours straight, or seventeen, in this case.
> 
> I'm on a roll this year, kiddos. Legit this story has the fastest updates I've done in my entire writing career. I use to update once a month, but oneshots/mini-series have been saving my writing life.
> 
> Catch ya on the flipside, my homies. I'm gonna work on the HoxWolf anniversary fic and then pass out. I got school, tomorrow.
> 
> Night/Morning!


	6. Wolf Loves Hoxton Very Much (Part Two)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The second part of Wolf and Hoxton's anniversary fic is finally here!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally, I've gotten this chapter done. I'm sorry it's late, folks, by about two/three weeks. I had it practically done (except for the ending) since last Monday, but I had a talent show that I had to practice for, and I now have nine new animals.
> 
> Get this, I /had\ three ferrets, one cat, and two rabbits.
> 
> I /now\ have three ferrets, one cat, a lovely cockatiel, and ten rabbits.
> 
> The cockatiel was a planned pet that I've been prepared for about seven years.  
> The rabbits were not planned.  
> Turns out one of the two "girls" was, in fact, a boy.
> 
> So now we have eight baby bunnies that I'm pretty much taking care of, full time.

     Wolf cursed under his breath as he ran through the safehouse. He had managed to get Hoxton out of the house for a few hours while he cooked, and now it was pointless.

     The stove was broken.

     Arms filled with fresh meats and vegetables, the Swede kept running until he found another heister. Or, more accurately, ran into them.

     It was Dragan.

     Cursing and out of breath, Dragan waited until the man could speak clearly before questioning him.

     "My friend, you are looking tired. Might I grab some of these from you?"

     Wolf nodded, happily handing over a bag filled to the brim with vegetables. The Croatian hummed approvingly, smiling at the healthy choices of the bald man.

     "I see you are preparing dinner for tonight. You and Hoxton?"

     Wolf nodded again, using his free hand to scratch his head.

     "Uh, yeah. Problem is, stove's broken. I don't have enough time to fix the fucking thing."

     Dragan nodded, sensing his dilemma. He rubbed his beard, before pulling his phone out.

     "Hold on a moment, Wolf. I know a person."

     Seemed like everyone knew a person but Wolf, these days. He listened as the Croatian talked to a woman on the phone, the man balancing the paper bag on his hip as he walked Wolf over to the yard.

     "Yes, my friend. We need a grill. There's a lot of meat here, yes. Biggest one you can find. Okay, yes. Thank you. Tell Houston to bring it to the yard. I'll find a propane tank. Yes, I think we have some here. Thank you, friend. Take care, see you soon."

     Hanging up the phone, Dragan smiled at Wolf, who simply scratched his neck, the worry on his face only lessening slightly. The Croatian brought the Swede over to a table that they had recently added to the concrete yard, setting their bags down onto it. Pulling out some of the ingredients, Dragan placed the vegetables into one pile, while setting the meats wrapped in paper into another pile. He pointed at the vegetables, then to Wolf.

     "I will need some foil for these, cutting boards, knives, and butter. The onions and peppers need to be cooked at different times, or else the peppers will burn before the onions are done. Grab black pepper, some salt, and a little bit of garlic. You forgot to grab it, but I bought some a few days ago, there should still be a few cloves. Plenty for this."

     Shooing Wolf off, Dragan walked into the safehouse, yelling down the stairs for reinforcements.

     "Jacket, Sokol, get your asses up here! Need help with food!"

     At the mention of food from one of the best chefs in the house (second only to Angel, who actually went to school to become a chef), Sokol and Jacket raced from their rooms to help. Once they were upstairs, Dragan brought them outside, where they were told to put on aprons and hairnets. Sokol looked in disgust at the hairnet.

     "These are fucking stupid. Mess with hair. Why must we wear these things?"

     Jacket snorted at the Russian's anger, snapping his hair net on without arguing. Grabbing Sokol's net, the younger heister thought he was going to toss it away for him but instead, he was pulled into the older man's arms and forced to hold still. With slurred Russian curse words thrown at him, and a few scratches, Jacket managed to force the net onto Sokol's blonde hair.

     The Russian glared at the American, who only rolled his eyes and handed him an apron. The two followed Dragan outside, where Wolf was setting up cutting boards and tin foil boats for the vegetables. Dragan called the two men over.

     "Sokol, you will be tenderizing the meat, Jacket, I need you to slice peppers and onions. I'll season them, Wolf, you'll put the veggies into the foil, and when the grill gets here, we'll worry about the grilling. Now, I'm going to grab some ice to keep the meat from spoiling, the rest of you start prepping."

     With that, Dragan returned to the safehouse, leaving the three men to prepare the food. Sokol didn't mind the tenderizing part, he got to beat meat with a hammer. Jacket looked over in concern when he saw the younger man beginning to pulverize the steaks. He shook his head, placing a bandaged hand on Sokol's pale one. He grabbed the hammer, directing Sokol to cut more vegetables. Wolf chuckled.

     "You two remind me a lot of me 'n' Hoxatron, you know?"

     Sokol looked to the older man, knife in hand. He quickly looked back down when he met the Swede's eyes.

     "What about us?"

     "Oh, nothing much, just how you two hated each other last month, but now you two are hip to hip. You're the talker, Jacket's quiet. You steal each other's food, sleep together in your rooms-"

     "Woah woah woah, you watch us sleep?!"

     Wolf raised his hands in defense to the angry Russian, who was now pointing the knife at him.

     "I went to Jacket's room to return his cassette. He dropped it a while back, when that dozer knocked him over. I fixed it for him. When I went to give it to him, you were passed out on the couch together, with hockey on the television."

     Sokol let out a quiet 'oh', head dropping back down in embarrassment. He felt a slight nudge on his hip and looked over to see Jacket smiling at him. He smiled back, returning to the cutting of the vegetables.

     Dragan soon returned, a rectangular bowl half-filled with ice in his hands. Jacket handed the steaks over to Dragan, who skillfully seasoned them before placing them on tin foil, then into the bowl. They only had to wait a few more minutes before the sight of Houston's truck pulled into their vision. They sprung into action, quickly putting the grill together, before quickly cleaning the actual grill part. You never know what kind of bacteria is on those things.

     Wolf connected the propane tank as Dragan turned the knobs, pressing a button to light the grill. Wiping his hands on his apron, he nodded at Wolf.

     "You want me to help you grill the steaks, Wolf?"

     The Swede shook his head, a small smile on his face.

     "No thanks, Dragan. I've got it from here. Thanks for the extra help though, guys."

     The bald man watched as his fellow heisters left. Dragan to his workout area, Jacket and Sokol back downstairs, probably together. Houston lit a cigarette, offering one to Wolf, who shook his head again. The younger man shrugged, placing the pack back into his pocket. They stood there in silence, Wolf whistling an unknown tune as Houston leaned on the brick wall of the safehouse. It was a comfortable silence, though a little awkward. Wolf began speaking.

     "So, uh, Angel sent you, I'm guessing?"

     Houston nodded, taking another breath in of his cigarette.

     "Yep. We were at Price Chopper when Dragan called. She was looking into buying some stuff for a dinner party, said she never really got to cook for anyone, anymore. Practically threw me here to help. I gotta go grab her, in a bit. Thought I'd get a smoke, first."

     Wolf lifted an eyebrow, flipping the steaks.

     "So, you two getting serious, then?"

     Houston nodded again, stamping out the cigarette

     "Yep, at least, I think so. She's got me picking out furniture for an apartment, for fuck's sake. I've never actually fucking worried about that kind of shit, you know? Come to think of it, I can't remember a time I had a real home-cooked meal before her. Probably when I visited my mom for Christmas, a couple of years back."

     Wolf whistled.

     "Oh, she's got you hooked, kid."

     "What the hell does that mean?"

     Wolf placed the spatula down, scratching his beard. He gestured for Houston to sit with him.

     "I had a wife, back in Sweden. We had two beautiful daughters. I used to cook with them, we'd eat dinner together, watch movies in the living room. I never thought I'd have a family, to be honest. I met my wife when I began my company with my brother. Thought that, maybe, she was the one. Soon, we were picking out baby names and choosing which colors to paint the house. So, when a woman like that is having you help her make those decisions? She's probably into you.

     Houston could see the other man's eyes change from happy to almost melancholy. He looked to the grill, poking the man when he saw a bit of smoke rise. The Swede rushed to his feet, flipping the steaks and vegetables onto plates. Handing them to Houston, he shut off the grill, bringing the scraps and tools back into the house. Houston quickly placed the plates on the kitchen table while Wolf threw away the garbage and rinsed the utensils, placing them in the dishwasher for later. Turning around, Wolf patted his suit jacket, trying to clear himself of any wrinkles. Houston shook his head, grabbing the man's collar and straightening it. Patting his shoulder, he looked to the window, seeing a car pulling up, before looking back to the older man.

     "Go get 'em, tiger."

     Walking downstairs, Houston left the safehouse, Wolf could hear him and Hoxton trading insults, before the ponytailed man himself walked upstairs.

     "Can ya believe that twat? Thinkin' he's fuckin' God or some shite. Unbelievable little-"

     Freezing in his tracks, Wolf watched as his boyfriend took in the sight in front of him. Wolf was standing by the table, dressed better than he usually did, which isn't saying much, he always wore nice suits. It wasn't Wolf that got him choked up, rather his actions. A candle was lit, glasses of wine poured on both sides of the table, where large plates of steak and vegetables let off an aroma that Hoxton hadn't smelled since before he went to prison. Looking to the Swedish man, the Englishman huffed out a sigh.

     "You sappy bastard. This for me, innit?"

     Wolf nodded, hands slightly shaking by his sides. He tried to hide it, but Hoxton saw it anyways. The Englishman quickly walked over to the man, looking to see if anyone else was watching, before pulling the taller man into a hug, thin arms wrapping around his neck. Wolf hugged back, placing a small kiss on the burnt side of Hoxton's face. Hoxton could feel his boyfriend's beard scratch on the scars, and while he usually didn't enjoy the sensation on the burn marks, he found that he really didn't mind this time. He pushed his nose into Wolf's neck, hiding a smile in the collar of his shirt.

     "I love it, Wolfie."

     Wolf's smile was beaming, and he squeezed the thin man even tighter.

     "I'm glad you like it, Hoxatron."

     Pulling away, Wolf pulled out a chair, offering the seat to the younger man, who simply rolled his eyes and smiled, sitting down in it. Wolf quickly sat himself down, pulling a napkin onto his lap. He let his eyes linger as he watched Hoxton cut into his steak, taking a piece and placing it into his mouth.

     "Holy fucking Christ, this is delicious, Wolfie. Where'd you learn to cook like this?"

     Wolf shrugged.

     "I uh, got a little help from some friends. That, and I cooked a bit when I was in Sweden."

     "Well, whoever taught you to cook deserves a gold fucking star, and so do you. You've been holding out on me, man."

     Wolf smiled, taking a sip of his wine. Grabbing his knife, he started cutting pieces of his steak, looking up at Hoxton just as the other man stole a piece of his food.

     "Hey! You've got your own plate, you... you..."

     Hoxton lifted an eyebrow.

     "What? Twat? True. I am a prick, but food always tastes better off your plate, Wolfie, you know that."

     Hoxton reached across again, taking another piece from Wolf's plate, who simply sighed and took his fork, grabbing Hoxton's entire steak.

     "Oi, fucker! I never said you're supposed to steal from me, too!"

     Wolf laughed as he placed the steak on his plate, walking over to Hoxton's side of the table and sitting next to him. He moved Hoxton's plate over, after taking the vegetables, of course. Hoxton understood what he was doing and set the plate a few chairs over, letting Wolf cut up the meat.

     The older man took a bite out of the steak, before grabbing another piece and gesturing for Hoxton to eat it. The Englishman took the piece happily, before sipping on his wine.

     "Now, that is some fine fucking meat, Wolfie."

     The Swede could feel Hoxton nudge his leg with his foot, and with practiced movements, their legs were overlapping. The usually cold man could feel a strong warmth in his heart, one he always seemed to feel when he was around Hoxton. Scooting his chair closer, he wrapped an arm around the younger man, placing a bearded kiss on his lips.

     "Love you, James."

     Hoxton smiled back up at him, all signs of anger and stress gone from his features.

     "I love you too, Wolfie. Happy Anniversary."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this little fluff-filled fic is now done.
> 
> Time to get to the smutty stuff.
> 
> Aka, I'm probably doing smut next chapter.
> 
> Annnnd, it's probably gonna be Jacket and Sokol.
> 
> I don't see a lot of smut for these two, and later on, when I include Beard and girlfriend, I know it'll be a first for all four to be in a smut-fic together.


	7. Boys Like Boys

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I don't even remember writing this, but I haven't uploaded in two months and I /need/ to update so badly, so this is a gift-wrapped present to myself. Thank you, me, for writing this at 2:00 am some morning last month and forgetting to upload. -_-

     It was another boring day in the bunker. Sokol had spent most of it in his makeshift ice rink, shooting pucks into the goal. He used to enjoy his rink very much, but lately, it gave him little comfort. His legs missed the feeling of real ice underneath them, and his attitude only worsened each day he was off of the rink.

  
     Sighing, the young heister put his beloved hockey stick to the side, underneath his framed jersey. Next to it sat a pinned photo of him and his teammeates, right before his last game. He touched it, seeing the shine the safehouse lights reflect off of it. He turned away from the photograph, deciding to find someone to hang out with.  
     

     He knew that Dragan, Bodhi, Duke and Bonnie were out on a heist, so they were out of the question. Looking over to Jacket's secluded room, he shook his head, already knowing that the older man would rather hang out with cloakers than him. He dismissed the idea of disturbing Wolf or Hoxton, knowing the two were spending their day over at Wolf's recently purchased home. Sokol smirked at the thought, knowing the two were much more than friends before anyone else had firgured it out.

     Sokol walked into the armory anyways, checking to see if the Baba Yaga was in. Sokol had grown up on stories of the Boogeyman, but after having met him, John Wick didn't frighten Sokol, anymore. He could understand why the other man killed so many Russians, knowing that they had killed his wife's final present to him, a sweet beagle named Daisy.

     When he checked the killing room, Sokol couldn't find Wick anywhere, so he went upstairs.

     Once he was in the main room, Sokol could see that nobody was around. Huffing, he went to the one person who he knew had intel on everybody.  
Aldstone.

     Making the trip back downstairs to the butler's large study, the young Russian softly knocked on the maple door. A soft, 'come in' was heard, and Sokol turned the knob.

  
     Sticking his head inside, Sokol could see that Aldstone was having his afternoon tea. The man had his reading glasses on, what looked to be an old copy of "Lord Of The Flies" in his one hand, and a cup of tea in the other. He felt bad for interrupting his daily ritual, but the younger man was bored beyond misery.

     "Ah, Aldstone? Quick question I must ask."

     The elder man looked at Sokol from above his glasses, his head nodding downwards a tad to see him more clearly.

     "Ah yes, young Mister Sokol. What may I help you with, on this fine evening?"

     The young man cleared his throat before speaking.

     "Ah, nobody is home, from what I see, and not to be rude, it's very boring."

     Aldstone hummed for a moment, before placing his tea and book down on his desk, careful not to damage the aging story in any way. Opening what appeared to be a notebook, Aldstone dragged a pristine gloved finger down a page, before stopping.

     "Ah, yes, it seems that Master Hoxworth and Mister Wolf have left for the weekend for, ahem, personal time together. Miss Bonnie, Miss Clover, Misters Dallas, Chains, and Wick have gone home for the night, and Mister Duke is at an art gallery, presumably looking for more clues as to where treasure might be located. Mister Jimmy, Tony, Sangres, and Jiro are at a Spanish restaurant, and I believe Mrs. and Mr. Klein are on their date night. That just leaves Mister, er, Jacket. He should be in his room, hopefully sleeping."

     Sokol frowned, before speaking again.

     "I see, what about the others?"  
Aldstone looked in the book again, letting out a surprised 'oh!' at the other names.

     "My apologies, it seems that Mister Rust is out on a bike ride, and Mister Houston and Miss Angel are at a film, but it appears that Miss Sydney is in fact here, at the moment. I'd check the yard if I were you. She might be spray-painting the walls, again."

     Grinning, Sokol felt much better. He asked Aldstone one more question.

     "Hey, Aldstone. How do you even know all of this stuff, anyway?"

     Aldstone lifted a single eyebrow to Sokol, grabbing a remote, before pressing a button. Suddenly, the movie screen behind him gave way to a wall of monitors, cameras placed in various corners of the safehouse.

     "I may just be a butler, young man, but when nobody is home, somebody must keep an eye on things. Besides, most of them tell me where they're going, and others, I just listen in on. It's what I do, to put it plainly."

     Sokol, now dumbfounded, nodded, before silently leaving the room and Aldstone to his reading.

     Walking back up the stairs, Sokol stepped out into the yard, seeing a mop of unruly blue hair bobbing up and down. Sokol could see a can of paint in her hand and a set of noise-canceling headphones on her head. Walking over, the Russian carefully tapped the Aussie's shoulder, leading to her whipping around and nearly hitting him with the can. When she realized who it was, she gave a toothy grin, pulling the headphones off.

     "What can I do for ya, Tall white and Russian?"

     Sokol rolled his eyes.

     "I am very bored in safehouse. Can I hang out with you?"

     Sydney sadly shook her head, putting the can down on the pavement. She scratched the side of her shaven head, a small frown on her face.

     "Sorry, mate. I just about got done, 'ere, and was about to pack up and head home. Is nobody else 'round?"

     Sokol shrugged, the scar on his nose scrunching a bit.

     "Ah, Jacket is here, but he hates me, so that's not a good idea."

     Sydney clapped his shoulder with a gloved hand.

     "Whatdaya mean, Sok? Ya just gotta get used to 'im, is all!"

     Sokol aggressively shook his head, hurrying to speak again.

     "Vy nerozumiete, you do not understand me. He killed an entire mob chain in Miami, he hates every Russian he sees. I do not think he even likes Vlad. He hates me and wants me dead. I can see it in his eyes."

     Sydney pursed her lips, her hands holding onto the loops in her jeans. Thinking for a moment, she quickly snapped her fingers, grabbing the grinder and pulling him into the safehouse. She led him over to the stairs and stopped. Turning to him, she put her hands on his shoulders.

  
     "You stay 'ere, mate. I'm gonna go grab a thingy, be back in a jiffy."

     With that, she walked down the stairs. Sokol could hear a small crash after a few moments, and several thuds, but before he could go downstairs and check to see if she was alright, she returned.

     "Well, I'm not that strong, so I'm gonna need a bit of that 'ockey playa muscle of yours, Sok. Mind givin' me a hand, down here?"

     Sokol nodded, deciding that he trusted Sydney enough. The two walked downstairs together, and she led him over by Bodhi's door. Before he could grab the knob, however, she swiftly opened up Jacket's room door, shoving the grinder in, before closing it. Cursing in Slovakian, the Russian tried turning the job, only to find that the woman had locked it.

     "Sydney, vy zlé kurva! Open the damn door!"  
He threw a fist to hit the door, but was only met with cold metal and a high pitched laugh from the younger woman. Cursing under his breath, Sokol was happy with the thought that he was at least alone in Jacket's room.

  _"Kshhhzt. The Dingo -_ fzzzt _\- is a -crack- bad friend."_

     Letting out a frustrated sigh, Sokol rubbed his temple, turning around to be met with the sight of Jacket. The older man was wearing his namesake, the sleeves rolled slightly up. The catch was, he was tied to a chair, duct tape wrapped around his head. He had a bored expression on his face like he was used to this kind of thing.

     "Oh for fuck's sake, she locked you in here, too?"

     Jacket nodded, clicking a few buttons on his cassette before a response rang out.

    _"-_ Shhhck _\- She tied you to a kitchen chair, she broke your throne, she cut your hair."_

     Letting out an annoyed yell, Sokol turned to beat on the door.

     "Sydney! Aldstone! Somebody lemme the fuck out of this shithole!"

      _"-Crack- I would appreciate it -_ fzzzzt _\- if you did not damage my property."_

     Turning back to the taped man, Sokol flipped him off, taking off his suit's coat. It was about seventy degrees Fahrenheit in the safehouse, which to Sokol, was like stepping into a volcano. It was worse in Jacket's room, the silent man used to sweltering heats, having been born and raised in Miami, Florida. He quickly rolled up his sleeves, walking around Jacket to sit on the older man's couch. He put his head in his hands, letting out a defeated sigh.

    _"Untie me baby -_ fshhht _\- comin' outta my cage, and I've been doing just fine."_

     Sokol raised his head to look at the ex-soldier.

     "Jacket, I will actually fucking kill you if you play one more fucking tape."

     Jacket glared at him, his finger twitching on the cassette. Sokol could barely see the smirk the man held on his face, before-

_-Click-"Hit me baby, one more time."_

  
     Sokol lunged at the older man, knocking them both back onto the cold floor. Sokol could barely feel the cool stone on his arms, before Jacket swung his legs up, holding the younger man in a tight grasp. He could hear Jacket move around as he swung blindly at the man. Suddenly, the marksman pulled his arms out of the ropes, grabbing the Russian by his hair. Sokol let out a yell of pain before angry gray eyes were met with calm blues.

  
     Swinging an arm up towards the silent man's face, Jacket was quick to grab it, releasing him from his legs, before pushing the grinder back onto the floor. The Russian tried to bring his knee up and into Jacket's groin, but that too was stopped with the solid weight of Jacket sitting on his thighs in a criss-cross position. Tsking, Jacket brought up his cassette, clicking a button, and holding the player up to his mouth.

  
  _-Click-"Naughty boys get spankings."-Click-_

  
     Sokol squinted at the older man.

     "That's fucking creepy, Jacket. Now, lemme go, you bitch."

     Jacket shook his head, reaching behind him for the ropes. Sokol's eyes widened at the sight and struggled to get away. He then realized he had his other arm, and reached for something, anything to get him out of this situation.

  
     Jacket sighed, grabbing Sokol's other arm, before tying his upper arms to his sides, letting his forearms stay free. Then, untying the rope at his ankles, Jacket turned around, his legs accidentally knocking into a potted plant. He quickly tied the rope around Sokol's ankles, then the remainder to the rope around his chest. Standing, he reached down and grabbed the young Russian by the torso, easily lifting him. Sokol's head sat on his shoulder, and he felt stupid that way. He began fighting to be free, again. Jacket huffed, dropping the Russian onto his couch. He sat him up gently, clicking his cassette player.

  
_-Fzzzzt- "Please be advised -click- I wanna play a game."_

  
     Jacket turned around, turning on his small television, grabbing two controllers for his NES. Sitting on the couch, the older man gave a remote to Sokol, before searching a small box of games. Pulling one out, Jacket let out a happy chirp, before putting it into the console. He then returned to the couch, grabbing his own controller. Sokol's eyes widened before a toothy grin was plastered on his face.

     "Pro Sport Hockey? Where the fuck did you find this gem? I haven't played this since I was small child!"

     Jacket smiled, a pleased look on his face. For the next few hours, the two sat and played. It wasn't like real hockey, but to see Sokol happy, understanding perfectly what was going on in the game gave Jacket a warm feeling. After the first few rounds, Jacket let Sokol out of the ropes, knowing he wouldn't try and leave again. It would be fruitless since Sydney had barred the door.

     It was late, as Sokol looked at his watch. It was nearing ten o'clock, and neither had eaten food. Sokol looked to Jacket, gesturing to the door.

     "Do you think she will let us out, now? I'm hungry, and it's very warm in here."

     Jacket gave him a sorry looked, before standing up. His beat-up sneakers softly padded over to the door, and with a taped hand, he knocked. After the first hit, the door squeaked open. Turning to Sokol, he shrugged, walking over to the television to shut it off. Sokol stood up, grimacing at the sheen of sweat he felt on his body. Excusing himself, he left the room.

  
     "I will be back, Jacket, I have to change clothes. I'm sweating like dog in heat."

     Jacket nodded, picking up the controllers and various cigarettes they had smoked throughout their gaming session. Sokol, meanwhile, walked over to his shelf, unbuttoning his dress shirt in exchange for a baggy wife beater. It was bigger on him, now, his frame becoming smaller the longer he stopped playing hockey. He worked out, but it was mostly running from cops and running towards cops. He no longer had strong abs, his stomach now giving way to a slight pudge. He shook his head at it, deciding that he would start weightlifting again, after the holidays.

  
     Pulling the shirt on, Sokol also removed his dress pants, quickly switching into a gray pair of sweats. He had already toed off his shoes and grabbed the pair of converse that Clover had gotten him. They were more comfortable than shiny dress shoes, though he also appreciated the gift from his Irish friend.

     He slid the shoes on, loosely tying them, before walking back over to Jacket's room. He stuck his head in.

     "I'm gonna go grab something to eat. Want anything?"

     Jacket shrugged. He hesitated, before lifting his hands. Quickly, in a flurry of movements, he signed to Sokol.

     "Do you know sign language?"

     Sokol nodded.

     "A little. Angel was teaching me a bit, said something about one of her friends being deaf."

     Jacket hummed, walking over to Sokol. He leaned into the other man's space, who didn't know if he should move or not. Jacket seemed to analyze him before-

     "I would like pizza, please."

     Sokol nodded again, messy blonde hair falling over his eyes. A warm blush rose on his cheeks, and thankfully, Jacket didn't seem to notice. The younger heister choked on his words for a moment, before slipping out of the room.

     "Ah, right. I'll, I'll just go put in a call to delivery. Cheese and pepperoni, or, or everything?"

     The silent man quickly signed out his preference, Sokol making a mental note of the toppings, and the way Jacket's hands moved. Sokol flew up the stairs, his face red as a tomato. What the fuck was going on with him. A few hours earlier, the two seemed to hate each other, and now, now Sokol was confused. He thought Jacket hated him, but the man never said it, nor did he ever raise a hand to the younger man.

     As he waited for the pizza, he thought more about the jobs he had done.

     Ever since Sokol and Jacket had joined the gang, Jacket seemed to stick to himself, mostly. He 'talked' to the other heisters, sure, but he never really hung out with them. He usually talked to Wick, Wolf, and Chains, never really anyone else. Then again, Jacket seemed to go on every heist with Sokol. He thought about it a bit more and thought about how Jacket went on every mission Sokol did. Sometimes just in case shit went South, other times as an extra gun. Sokol thought about how every time he had gotten downed, Jacket would know instantly, dropping a bag of loot right in the middle of a cop swarm, smashing heads in as he made his way over to Sokol before anyone else could.

  
     When the doorbell rang, Sokol quickly paid the delivery guy, sticking a twenty dollar tip in his hands, before grabbing the pizzas and shutting the door. Walking up the stairs to the kitchen, Sokol called out for Jacket.

     "Hey! Jacket, the pizza is here! Come grab some before it gets cold, da?"

     Not even two minutes later, Jacket had joined Sokol in the kitchen. Sokol climbed onto the counter, eating a slice of cheese pizza. He watched as Jacket grabbed two slices of pepperoni and cheese, dropping the thin-crusted goodness onto a paper plate, before grabbing two cups from the cabinet above the coffee maker. Bending down, Jacket searched another cabinet for soda, while Sokol stared at his ass, pizza in his mouth, remaining unchewed.

   
     Sokol decided that, yes, he did like Jacket. Finishing up his pizza, he took the glass of American cola, drinking a large swig out of it, before wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. Looking up at Jacket, he placed his plate down beside him. He continued watching the older man eat, who paid no mind to the fact that the Russian heister was staring at him. When Jacket finished, he took both plates, putting them in the recycling bin that Clover was so hell-bent on having.

     Nodding to Sokol, the older man turned to leave. Before he could leave the kitchen, however, Sokol grabbed his arm, turning him around. Sokol was about to say something before Jacket made his move.

  
     And he kissed Sokol first.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations (I want Sokol to be able to understand Slovak and Russian so dammit, he knows both, now.)
> 
> "Vy nerozumiete." - "You do not understand."  
> "Sydney, vy zlé kurva!" - "Sydney, you bad fuck!"
> 
> So, while reading this over for editing before I post it, I remembered that I wrote this on a day that I went to my favorite pizza joint in New York, which explains the pizza. I also noticed that whenever I play as Sokol, Jacket revives me more than anyone else in the crew. I'm sure it's just coincidence, but it's story-writing magic-making coincidence, so yeet.
> 
> *Internal screeching*
> 
> So, hey, yeah, hit me up with some prompts for these ships! I'll let you folks know what I'm cool with writing and what I'm not comfortable writing. If you don't know if I'll write it for you, just ask!


	8. Lost In Translation.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is just a small drabble I wrote tonight, to get the writing ball rolling, again.
> 
> Enjoy this trash, because I sure as fuck won't.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All translations of cuneiform to English are actually from the game. I did indeed spend an hour trying to clean up the picture of the medallion, and since I sorta understand the alphabet, I was able to translate it roughly, at first, then fully. 
> 
> You're welcome from saving you $50,000 in eyeglasses since my eyes are already fucked as it is, why not jack 'em up even more by reading blurry as fuck/ancient as fuck writing?

     The photo was sitting on her art easel when she entered her room. Paint was splattered everywhere, but that was usual in Angel's room. It was either paint or charcoal, and with Bain missing, she needed something more colorful to brighten her day.

     She didn't need a fucking letter written in goddamned cuneiform, however.

     Grabbing the photo from her easel, she dragged her already tired body and brain up to Dallas' office, where the said man was currently passed out on top of his desk. She nudged the man in the neck, watching as he quickly stirred head flying backward as he looked at her, then the photo.

     "Oh shit, sorry, that came for you. I don't know what the fuck it is or what it says, so I figured you'd know."

     Putting her hand to her waist, she waved the picture.

     "Ya mean, this came for  _you_ and you don't know how to google translate shit, so you leave it with me!"

     Dallas rolled his eyes, checking his watch before standing, his back cracking in protest to his movements. Angel raised a concerned brow.

     "I'm gonna go grab some food, then work some more, I think I'm getting somewhere, with this..."

     Shoving him towards the door, she smacked him on the back of the head.

     "Like hell, you are! You look like shit, Dal. When's the last time you slept properly, and not in your office?"

     "What day is it?"

     "It's Sunday, Dal. New Years' Eve."

     "Last Tuesday, then."

     "You proved my point, now get the hell outta here. Go home, get some sleep. Houston should have a few leftover sandwiches from yesterday in the fridge, feel free to grab a few on the way out."

     She could tell that the man was battling with himself internally. Sleep, or stay up and try to find Bain? She didn't give him a choice, however, as she plopped herself down in his chair. Before he could protest, she raised a finger to the man.

     "Da-da-da! No arguing with the squad mom. Get home, Dal. Get some sleep. If we need you, we'll call you. You're no use to us if you pass the fuck out during a mission. Houston and I got the safehouse covered, and nobody plans on leaving Bain to rot in some cell in God-knows-where. We'll be alright. Go home."

     Nodding, Dallas turned to the door, grabbing his coat. He didn't need to say thank you, knowing that Angel already knew what was going on in his head. She seemed to be kept in the loop pretty damn well, and with her uncanny ability to understand multiple languages, he knew she could, at the very least, keep an ear out for any possible traitors.

     Angel watched as the crew chief left the safehouse, throwing her feet up on his desk before grabbing a pen and notepad. She sat for about an hour, trying to make sense of the blurry lettering in the photo before she finally wrote down all of the cuneiform letters. From there, it only took her about five minutes before she had it translated.

     "For the watcher of the star..."

     Grabbing the photo, she double checked to make sure that yes, that was indeed what the picture read. Now that she was looking more closely, the object with the writing on it seemed very familiar...

     "Hey, Houston! C'mere for a minute, will ya, love?"

     She could hear light footsteps before her boyfriend jogged into the room, oil smudged on his forehead. He must've been working on the van.

     "What's up?"

     She handed him the picture.

     "Didn't you guys grab this thingy a while back? Some sort of medallion?"

     Houston nodded, scratching the light stubble on his neck.

     "Uh, yeah. Think Locke has it, not sure though. I'd check with Dallas."

     Angel nodded, taking the picture back.

     "Okie dokie, thanks handsome. You can go back to whatever you were doing, now."

     Saluting with a filthy rag in his hand, Houston jogged back downstairs, while Angel pulled up the internet on Dallas' computer. The photo wasn't left to her by coincidence. It was given to Dallas because Locke knew he would give it to someone he trusted would know cuneiform, and only a few groups of people used the language, nowadays.

     "Alright, Bainsy... What did you want me to find out, for you? Where's this big bad group you're so afraid of?"

     And she started digging.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holy Christ this was horribly written. I definitely plan on coming back to this, and please forgive any mistakes I've made, in this. I'm gonna go play the missions that tie to Bain getting dad-napped.
> 
> Aka Brooklyn Bank and Golden Grin Casino, for starters. Many more, after that. Hell, every mission is probably connected, in some way.
> 
> All aboard the Bain-Train!
> 
> Choo-Choo!
> 
> *Train Noises*


	9. Sorry For The Hiatus (Again)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Explanation Below:

I did it again. I went on a long ass hiatus and didn't explain myself before I left.

 

A quick recap of what happened in my life, because I owe you all a lot more than that, but I'm working on the next couple of chapters, tonight, and maybe beginning another short story, so I'll need a few hours to do those.

 

First, I'm so sorry.

Second, I left for a long ass time because I went through a very bad depressive state of mind, and had to deal with myself. I didn't want to throw any of that gutter-trash angst onto any of your shoulders. I got a boyfriend, whom I quickly broke up with three days later after he tried kissing me two days after we started dating, and later that night shoved his hand up my sweater and groped my chest. I was uncomfortable with the kissing attempt and told him so immediately after it happened to keep his hands and mouth to himself. When he shoved his hand up my sweater, that was the last straw. It was a break in my trust for him, and I left him the next morning. He had groped me in front of my teacher and several of our friends, all of which asked me if I was okay, the next day, as I had quickly scooted my chair closer to my teacher, away from my now-ex, and hung my head in shame. Tears burned in my eyes. I have never been kissed by someone, but I've been groped by several people. Him doing that to me brought back horrible memories for me, and I didn't want to stay in a situation like that. I spent two weeks trying to just forget about it since I still saw him in school, but once I explained it to my teacher and told him that I didn't want to take any action against my ex, he quickly helped me to recover. He stopped mentioning my ex, and even put his own body in front of mine to physically block me from having to see or talk to him. My ex, however, never really thought that what he did was wrong, so when he tried to talk to me, I brushed him off as best as I could. He said that I was in the wrong for not telling him. I had told him several times over our friendship and the three-day relationship I didn't want to kiss or romantically touch in any way, yet. He didn't listen, his fault. I still feel nauseous thinking about it, and I don't want pity, so don't feel bad for me.

 

Besides that whole mess, I moved! Out of state, sadly. I won't see my teacher or my close friends in person, for a while, since I plan on going to school back in New York, but I still have memories and Thursday Night Dungeons and Dragons sessions with said teacher and close friends. Because I now reside in Florida, I have school in August, which kinda sucks. One month of (hopefully) regular updates, then it's back to school. I'll still try to write as often as possible, but I won't promise anything since I suck at keeping those. I will, however, keep a schedule of when I will write. I won't necessarily update on those days/nights, but I will get some writing done, so when I do update, I have some stuff already simmering on the backburner.

 

Okie dokie, reasons explained, check. Crippling depression shoved back into my closet, check. New phone, cracked screen? Check. 

I'll see you lovelies in a bit.

 

~Angel

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also, next chapter will be Bain and Dallas. I fucking love writing those two. Gotta get back into the grind(er) and start off with something familiar, ya know?


	10. To Sleep Untroubled Is A Dream We All Share

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A small drabble to get back into things.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I may write the prequel to this? Like, "The Heist Gone Wrong", or something like that. Most likely that, actually. Ooooh, more writing ideas are stewing in my brain, now.
> 
> Also, I have a list of things that I'm gonna write each night, this week. I'm planning/hoping to write two shorts a night, and upload one each night, this week. To sorta make up for the weekly updates I haven't done, for the past four months. I may write more, I may write less, but at least I'm working on a schedule. This one seems a bit much, right now, but this drabble I'm posting tonight seemed alright, for getting back into things. Who knows, I may keep up with nightly writings.

     It was a little after midnight, and the safehouse was quiet. Everyone else had already gone home, the last being Angel and Houston, who had asked if Dallas needed a ride. 

     Saying no, the man was met with hesitant faces, before the two quietly took their leave. It wasn't often that Dallas actually took the couple up on their offer, but the way he looked brought nothing but worry to their minds.

     After all, it wasn't every day that a heist failed, and civilians ended up dead.

     Dragging calloused hands over his face, Dallas looked at the clock on his monitor. Its white light burned the lack of sleep into his eyes. 

      _1:42 AM_

     Sighing, the man crossed his arms over his desk, softly setting his head into the makeshift pillow. Flashes of bright yellow and orange plagued his mind, the screams of innocent bystanders beating against his head like a lead pipe. Squeezing his eyes shut, the leader gave up on the task at hand and fell into a fitful sleep.

      _3:26 AM_

Walking into the safehouse would always be a strange feeling to Bain. He had watched over the safehouses using cameras that he himself had installed, but not once did he ever step into one while it was occupied by his heisters. 

      _"Time for things to change, I guess._ " Bain thought to himself. 

     Stepping through the open garage door, Bain made his way upstairs, the memory of the layout leading his way. He had watched for hours as Dallas threw things around his office, cursing anything and everything over the failed heist. It hadn't even been the man's fault, they had been set up, as was the usual, these days. Still, Dallas wouldn't forgive himself for the lives lost, earlier that day. Two women and a man had been killed, cut down in the crossfire between the Payday Gang and Winter's men. None of the heisters had fired on the civilians, but Winter's didn't care to save anyone that day. He only wanted blood and death to come to the criminal empire.

     And of course, they would be blamed for the bloodbath.

     Pulling his hair back with a hair tie, Bain entered Dallas' office. Eyeing the sleeping man at the desk, the hacker made his way over to him. He turned off the computer, first. Nothing good would come from Dallas seeing the news article detailing the deaths. He had already spent four hours poring over the text. His phone was next. Unlocking it, he turned airplane mode on, then turned off any and all alarms Dallas had set for himself. Once he was satisfied that Dallas wouldn't be disturbed in his sleep, he quietly slipped the phone into Dallas' jacket pocket, which hung over the back of his chair. Dallas' sleeves were rolled up haphazardly, and his tie was thrown onto the side of his desk. Taking the tie and jacket, Bain pocketed the tie, before placing the jacket over the crew chief's shoulders. He heard the man make a small groan, tan eyelids twitching ever so slightly before he finally returned to a sound slumber. 

     Bain's sadness for his closest friend slipped out of his mouth in a quiet sigh. They hadn't properly spoken for several weeks, besides for the upcoming jobs. Neither had the time, as they put it, but there was something else there that caused a rift in their relationship.

     Reaching his hands underneath Dallas' legs and behind his back, Bain gently picked the younger man up. He was heavy, which made Bain's knees scream at him, but he quickly brushed the pain off, instead focusing his attention on the man in his arms. Silently thanking Houston for turning off the big screen and the overhead lights, Bain quietly made his way through the safehouse, leaving the way he came, but with Dallas in his arms. 

     Once they arrived at his car, which he had left open for this occasion, Bain softly placed the sleeping man in the passenger seat. He shut the door as quietly as he could, quickly making his way over to the driver's seat, before getting in and starting the car.

     Looking over to the crew chief, he could see the man slowly waking up, eyes blinking drowsily, before widening in confusion. Semi awake and fully alert, the younger man's eyes flew to Bain's face, which was unfamiliar in Dallas' drowsiness.

     "What the fuck?"

     Reaching for his gun, and realizing that it was left in his office, Dallas tried to grab for the car door handle. His hair was mussed up, small salt and pepper curls frantically swaying in front of deep hazel eyes.

     "Door's locked, cowboy. Besides, you'll just get yourself killed if you try to get out."

     The rattling of the handle stopped suddenly, hands tightening around it. Dallas slowly let go, turning his head to look at the driver.

     "Bain?"

     "The one and only, kid."

     The car was silent, save for the passing of other vehicles as Bain drove. Then suddenly-

      _ **THWACK.**_

"Ow! What the fuck was that for?"

     Dallas looked at Bain, who was holding his nose with one hand and the car wheel with the other. Slowly, he brought his eyes down to his fist, which was clenched and had blood smeared all over it. Returning his gaze to the older man, he spoke with venom in his voice.

     "You don't fucking talk to me in fucking weeks, then you go and fucking kidnap me? Fuck you, Bain. You fucking deserved that, you Goddamned asshole!"

     "What the hell do you mean I didn't talk to you?! I've talked to you every day for the past month!"

     "For the fucking job, you dick! I haven't heard shit from you since fucking April. It's June now if you haven't noticed. Where the fuck were you?"

     They were in the middle of nowhere, now, so Bain felt that it was the perfect time to harshly pull over and stop the car. He turned the engine off before facing Dallas. Blood dripped from his nose, but the anger in his eyes told Dallas that he didn't care about the pain.

     "You wanna fucking talk, Dallas? Let's fucking talk then. What the fuck were you doing, tonight?"

     Dallas' eyes matched Bain's, the anger from the two creating a bitter tension. 

     "I was doing my fucking job, unlike you, asshole. I was trying to find the pig who screwed us. Someone had to have fucking ratted, and it wasn't the crew. Where the fuck were you when those fucking people died?"

     "I was making my way down a giant fucking list of people who want to screw us! I was working too, Dallas. You should've gone home, gotten some rest, but no, you had to stay after and pretend that everything was okay when you had just thrown a temper tantrum like a Goddamned five-year-old, and I had to fucking toss work aside and watch you to make sure you didn't do something completely stupid!"

     "Guess what, Bain? I'm a grown ass adult, I can take care of myself. I don't fucking need you to hold my hand when shit goes down. I had to fucking do that for myself for twenty fucking years. I can handle the world."

     "Oh yeah? Then explain to me who pulled you out of the fucking mob's jaws. Or who fucking took care of the crew after Hoxton got caught. 'Cause the last time I checked, you were either almost dead or were completely fucking losing it. You didn't take care of yourself then, so I guess I have to fucking baby you now. Put your Goddamn seatbelt on, Nathan."

     Hazel eyes filled with anger looked at Bain, Dallas' face drawing up in pure hatred.

     "Fuck. You."

     Turning toward the car door again, Dallas unlocked the door, before stepping a leg out of the car. He was quickly stopped by a muscular arm, bigger than even his own, that pulled him back inside. The door was shut behind him, and he could hear the faint  _'click'_ of a seatbelt as he struggled to gather his thoughts. Before he could grab for the handle again, cold metal clasped around his tanned wrists, and he was effectively stuck.

     He looked back at Bain, who simply sat and stared at him.

     "You ready to have a normal conversation, dear?"

     His voice was calm, too calm for Dallas' liking.

     "When you get your head out of your ass and realize I'm not fucking stayin' in this shitty car with you."

     "Yeah, well, it's a classic, and yes, you are. Listen, kid-"

     "And quit calling me fuckin' kid! I'm what, five years younger than you?"

     "More like seven, but close enough. Anyways, listen, I wanted to-"

     "I said don't fucking call. Me. Kid!"

     Lunging at Bain, the chained chief quickly stumbled over himself, landing face-first into Bain's chest. He smelled strangely of whiskey and firewood. Pushing himself up as much as he could, Dallas began to lash out in anger, punching and slapping at Bain's chest. The man above him let it happen, accepting the hits with an eerie silence.

     "You didn't even fucking speak to me, you fucking went quiet. I hate you!"

     Strong hands grabbed at Dallas' arms, then. His body went limp, sagging into the safety of Bain's personal space. Calloused hands rubbed his back, soothing the aches and pains of middle age and stress out of the younger man's body.

     "I went quiet to keep you safe. You gotta understand that, kid. I'd never do it to hurt you. I had to keep it on the down low, especially after the Reservoir Dogs heist. If people knew I was back already, you guys would never be safe again."

     "But you stopped talking to me, New Years, you came over and then you fucking left again. We talked, but you weren't fully there. Not like you used to be."

     Sighing in frustration, Bain looked down at Dallas, whose hair was strewn everywhere on his head.

     "Look, I had to keep you safe, alright? I wasn't about to fucking lose any of you guys again! Especially not you!"

     "Maybe you should have fucking thought about that before running off, asshole."

     Their voices raised higher, as did the tension. Dallas was sat up in Bain's lap, legs on both sides as his hands crossed over his chest as best he could with the cuffs on.

     "What part of keeping you safe don't you understand? God, you're a fucking brick wall when it comes to talking, you know that?"

     "Fuck you, at least I talk, Mr. 'I don't tell my friends shit, especially the one guy that I fucked once and left come morning.'"

     Bain slapped Dallas, whose face froze in shock, then melted into anger and... arousal?

     Before he could apologize, Bain's mouth was covered by Dallas', whose hands came up to meet his face. 

     "You. Fuckin'. Asshole. Piece of shit. Bastard."

     Bain thought about how they should stop, how they were both tired and that he needed to take Dallas home. He thought about how Dallas hated him.

     "God, I fucking love you so fucking much, I hate it, sometimes. You fucking mysterious prick."

     Or maybe he could just lower his seat and they could make out in the back. Yeah, that one sounded better.

     Fumbling for the side lever, Bain was met with a surprised groan from Dallas, who had shifted in his lap at the sudden movement.

     Yeah, talking could wait until later. More important things were at hand.

     

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoops, it turned into hate-smooching. It got smutty. Idk if I'll write a smut scene for this. It's practically non-existent on this site...
> 
> Do I do it?
> 
> DO I DARE RETURN TO MY LEGACY OF SMUT WRITING WITH A DALLAS X BAIN SEX SCENE?
> 
> Leave your thoughts below. I'll probably end up doing it so that I can finally say I returned to writing smut. Lol, my friends will be *so* proud of me. (That last part may be sarcastic, idk, I'm tired when writing this.)
> 
> Also this was longer than I expected it to be. Probably shittier, also, but oh well. That's what editing is for. Nighty night, kiddos.


	11. It's Tradition

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I'm still fucking wheezing over the donacdum meme, after all this time, and I will continue to wheeze until my inhaler runs out and I die.
> 
> Happy Fourth/Fifth to people who actually celebrate it.
> 
> I don't really do the fireworks stuff anymore, coz I moved and my animals are terrified of them, which makes me feel horrible.
> 
> Happy Holiday or Thursday!

     It was the Fourth Of July, and Houston was ready to commit murder.

     "Angel, for the love of everything that is holy, turn that fucking crap off. Please."

     He could hear the woman or in his mind  _monstrous child_ , giggling next to him in the car. She was holding up her phone, which was blasting an all too familiar song.

      _"D-D-Donacdum, D D-Donacdum. D-D-D-Donacdum. D-D-Donac..."_

     "But Hous, some loving fan made this for you. Now you have to play it the next heist. I promise, everyone will have a good laugh."

     Glaring at the brunette through his sunglasses, Houston gripped the steering wheel of the car tighter. All he wanted was to have a good Fourth Of July, and then Angel had to go and dig up the one thing he hated most.

     "Angel, please. I'm begging you now. Don't mention that shit to the other guys, especially Hoxton. That asshole wouldn't shut up for weeks about it. Think he's even got it as his ringtone, now."

     Sighing in frustration, Angel nodded, quickly tapping her thumbs against the screen before pocketing her phone. She sat up straighter in the car, her stature making her too short to see over the dashboard when she wasn't sitting correctly.

     "Honestly, I'm surprised somebody hasn't done a fuckin' Kids Bop remix of my height. Why the hell do dashboards have to be so high?"

     "They're not high, Angel. You're just short."

     Houston could feel a sharp hit against his shoulder as he laughed, Angel, flipping him off before they pulled into the parking lot of their destination.

     "I don't know why you like coming to this café, Ang, it's practically falling apart," Houston complained to his companion. She scoffed, pushing past him to get to the front entrance.

     "Are you joking? This place has the best drinks in D.C. Besides, they're open on the Fourth, and it's never packed. Also, you're buying."

     "Wait, the fuck? No, that's not happening. Last time that happened, I spent two grand on repairs at a burger joint."

     "Well, it was the guy's fault for grabbing that waitresses ass. Shit's not okay, and I was already having a crappy enough day, as it was."

     Houston sighed, holding the front door open for Angel. Ducking underneath his arm, she muttered her thanks, before leading the two into her favorite café. Joe's Cup was a rundown place, as Houston had put it simply. Originally a restaurant, it had been purchased in 2008 by Olivia and Darcy Frederickson, a married couple originally from Maine. They had three children and two huskies. Angel found this all out within the first ten minutes of the two meeting the owners.

     Sitting on a dark jade stool, Angel swiveled around in the seat, tapping her fingers on the counter while they waited. Houston sat next to her, his eyes scanning the whiteboard above the counters. 

     "Why don't they just use chalk like the rest of the hipster joints?"

     "Because Darcy's allergic to chalk. Liv tries to keep that stuff out as best as she can."

     "Oh. Well, then, what are you getting?"

     Angel glanced out of her peripheral vision to the older heister, before turning her gaze back to the pastry shelf next to the bar.

     "I don't know, probably a cannoli and, uh... peppermint mocha. What about you, Don?"

     "Don? Where'd that come from."

     Angel turned to Houston, a shit eating grin on her face. His face dropped.

     "Don't you fucking dare, Angel."

     "Donacdum, Houston."

     "I hate you, you know that?"

     "Bitch please, I'm your favorite. Besides, if you hated me, you wouldn't be about to order the same damn thing, you peppermint mocha loving American. Of course, you're getting a 'SuperCin Roll', and we're gonna share our delicious pastry treats, 'cause we always do, every single Wednesday evening."

     "Okay, you got me there. But seriously, no more Donacdum bullshit. It's the most annoying thing on the planet, and that's saying something since Hoxton used to be the most annoying thing on the planet."

     Raising her hands up in defeat, Angel turned her head to greet the barista, Darcy.

     "Hey, you two! Thought I'd missed you, today. You're later than usual."

     "Blame it on Derek, he was taking too long getting his shoes tied."

     The older woman smiled at the two, turning around to grab two paper to go cups. She wore a bright pink dress, kind of like the ones that fifties styled waitresses wore.

     "I'm sure he had no problem tying his shoes, Adrian. Were you two arguing in the car, again? Is that what made you so late?"

     "She wanted to stop at an animal shelter, then tried to convince me that our apartment absolutely needs a cockatiel. She does this every week, Darcy."

     The owner turned back to the heisters, placing their drinks on the counter, before grabbing a plate for their pastries. Setting a single cannoli and a cinnamon roll on the plate, she gave the dish to Houston, who grabbed the knife from his cutlery set and began to cut the roll. Once it was cut, he set Angel's half on her part of the plate, while she began sipping at her mocha and chewing on the cannoli.

     "I jus' find it stupid that our landlord won't let me have the bird. It's not like it'll be  _too_ loud. It's a cockatiel, not a cockatoo."

     "Addie, chew and swallow before you speak, you pastry gremlin. Besides, if our landlord hears anything with the word  _bird_ in it, he'll automatically think  _loud_ _obnoxious creature_. Then again, that still doesn't explain how you got into the apartment since you fit both of those criteria."

     "It's 'cause of my good looks and charm, Derk. Landlord loves me, just hates animals. I think he's the real gremlin. Here, I can't finish it."

     Passing the remainder of her cannoli to Houston, he let out a soft _'_ _sw_ _eet'_   before quickly popping the cannoli into his mouth. Meanwhile, Darcy rolled her eyes, grabbing a cloth to clean a water spill on the sink.

     "I don't get why you two don't just split the cannoli. Adrian never finishes her half, you two know this."

     Houston shrugged, finished with chewing the cannoli. He cleared his throat, taking a sip of his mocha, before speaking.

     "It's tradition. We come here every Wednesday, a new argument boiling over. You give us really good food and mochas, and we complain about life until you kick us out half an hour later."

     "Oh yeah, and we tip you really well before we leave. Especially on holidays, since you actually stay open on them."

     "That's your tradition? A lover's quarrel and pastries? You two need to get better hobbies. You don't want to end up fat and old like me and Olivia, do you?"

     Angel pointed a finger at Darcy.

     "If it means I'll become an amazing baker and have an amazing wife who's awesome at making peppermint mochas in July, then hell yes, I do!"

     Rolling her eyes again, Darcy pulled her hair back into a ponytail, securing it and fixing stray hairs, before walking over to the register. She motioned for the two to follow.

     "Well, it's only been eight minutes, but I promised Olivia we'd drop by the house and get the kids for the fireworks, tonight. You two plan on going to the big show?"

     Both heisters shook their heads, but Houston spoke.

     "We would, but it's too crowded for our liking. We'll probably just pick up some fireworks on the way back, set them off in the backyard with our neighbors."

     Handing a fifty dollar bill over to Darcy, the older woman took it and handed Angel the change, who quickly slipped under Houston's outstretched arm to pop the bills into the tip jar. Darcy perked her lips, eyebrow lifting at the short girl.

     "You know, your orders only came out to $26.38, right?"

     Angel nodded, before grabbing Houston's hand and heading for the door. She waved as Houston opened the door for her, before calling out as they left.

     "Yeah, but we always tip the people we like a lot more. Happy Fourth, Darcy! Say hi to the wife and kids for us!"

     "Will do. You kids have a good night, too, you hear?"

     "Yep! Bye!"

     Walking out the front, Angel looked to Houston, who had both drinks in his hands. Cursing, Angel's eyes met the man's, who just looked confused.

     "Which one's mine, which one's yours?"

     Houston shrugged, before handing her a cup at random.

     "Tradition?"

     Angel nodded, taking the drink in her left hand, and Houston's in her right. They began walking to the car.

     "Tradition. Also, Houston?"

     The taller of the two looked down to his friend, whose face held a serious tone.

     "What's up?"

     "Make sure you donacdum on the Fourth Of July."

     "Oh, shut up and drink your mocha, you damned gremlin."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact: the term pastry gremlin came up in a conversation that my friends and I had a few months back, during a D&D session. I brought pastries that I had baked, one time, and my teacher called me a pastry gremlin since I made pastries very often.
> 
> I am now the great and glorious pastry gremlin of my D&D party. Helps that my druid character is a baker/chef in her parents' tavern.


End file.
